


When Home is Lost

by gray_autumn_sky



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gray_autumn_sky/pseuds/gray_autumn_sky
Summary: A canon divergent AU set at the very end of season 2.Instead of letting Jamie take her back to the stones, Claire insists on accompanying Fergus back to Lallybroch. Though Claire promises Jamie that she'll go through the stones once she knows Fergus is safe with Jenny and Ian, she finds that she can't bring herself to do it, even if it means going back on her last promise to her husband.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 239
Kudos: 272





	1. Chapter 1

In a way, everything was moving in slow motion.

Everyone's speech seemed slower, their actions delayed, their voices muffled. Like the montage in a motion picture or maybe like in a dream.

None of it felt real.

It couldn't be.

Because if it were real then that would mean her entire world was crashing down at her feet, that everything she and Jamie fought for and the sacrifices they'd made had been in vain, that she was about to lose everyone she'd come to love and care for.

More than a year before, she'd promised Jamie that if it ever came to this—to this very moment—she'd go back through the stones to her own time. There'd been a time when that was all she wanted—to return to Frank and the life they were building together—but now, the mere thought of it churns her stomach and makes her heart ache. She can't imagine life without Jamie, she can't picture herself in the time she was born into, and more than that, she doesn't want to. There are a thousand reasons she should go back, yet none of them make sense to her—how could it, given the price she'll pay?

"What?"

She looks between Jamie and Murtagh, her eyes falling to Jamie's hand, stretched out to her.

"What is it?" she hears herself ask.

"A deed of sasine," Murtagh says.

"It conveys the title of Lallybroch to James Jacob Fraser Murray."

Claire nods, trying to focus on their words. "Giving the place over to your nephew."

"Aye."

Her hands trembling, she takes hold of his hand, mustering a smile as he gives her a tight squeeze.

All of this makes sense, given what's about to happen, and it's the safe, responsible thing to do. And yet, the knot in her stomach tightens at the realization that Lallybroch will no longer be theirs. Claire takes a breath, swallowing hard as she steps up to the table, her eyes falling to the document before her. It's selfish, she thinks, to feel like this is something she's losing. Lallybroch had been in Jamie's family for years—it was more than just a house, more than just his legacy. It was always meant to be passed on, and in truth, it's always been more of a home for Jenny, Ian, and their children than it'd been for her and Jamie.

And yet, she had such dreams there for her and Jamie.

She hadn't yet told him that she's pregnant. She's not even absolutely sure of it herself, but nonetheless, she found herself caught up in the dream of raising a family with Jamie at Lallybroch as if the fateful afternoon at Culloden Moor never happened. She imagined lying in bed beside him in her nightgown as Jamie caressed her growing belly, talking to their child and grinning up at her as when it kicked. She imagined Jenny coaching her through birth as Jamie held her hand, and she imagined the way she'd feel when Jamie placed their child in her arms. They'd both be teary as they stared down at their perfect newborn—a boy, she'd imagined, named Brian after Jamie's father and the first of many more.

In spite of knowing better, she'd let herself dream and now, she was cursing herself for allowing it because now that reality was settling in, it was like salt to an already painful wound.

"This protects Lallybroch and keeps the estate in the family, safe from the Crown, to be held in trust by Jenny and Ian until Wee Jamie is old enough," he tells her.

Looking down at it, she nods, her eyes skimming the deed. "But it's dated from a year ago," she murmurs, looking up from it.

Murtagh nods. "Aye, before the rebellion, before…"

"I was a traitor," Jamie interjects, his jaw tightening.

Murtagh looks between them and clears his throat. "I just need the signature of two witnesses."

Claire nods and takes a breath, once more trying to steady her trembling hand.

"Go fetch yer master ink and a quill, lad. Quick about it. Go."

She watches as Fergus dashes across the room and again the knot in her stomach tightens.

Oh, god.

Fergus.

What'll happen to him?

He can't go with her; she can't protect him.

Again, her stomach lurches as Fergus returns to the table with the quill and ink. Reaching out, she runs her fingers through Fergus' messy curls, drawing him close and hugging him into her side as Murtagh signs the deed—and then, he holds the quill out to her.

Tears fill her eyes as her throat tightens as she releases her hold on Fergus to take the quill, suddenly finding that it's difficult to breathe.

Slowly, she signs her name beside Murtagh's, her chest tightening and her stomach churning as tears slip down her cheeks. Drawing in a shaky breath, she blinks, forcing a tear to stray too quickly, falling to the paper and smudging her signature.

Nonetheless, Murtagh lifts the deed, blowing on it to dry the ink and tears. "Will ye have me take it to Jenny?"

"No, I'll have Fergus take it."

Sharply, she looks to her husband.

"Alone?" she murmurs, her brow furrowing as she considers the long ride back to Lallybroch. "You're going to send Fergus alone, on today of all days?"

Jamie looks back at her. "Aye—"

"No," she cuts in, her voice elevating indignantly. "You _can't_."

Jamie holds her gaze for a moment, then shifts his eyes momentarily to Fergus.

There's a lot that goes unsaid, and as his eyes meet hers again, she knows why he wants to send Fergus.

At eleven, he has a penchant for getting himself into trouble, always wanting to prove himself. Though Fergus French by birth, he's adopted Scotland as his homeland, and he's already proven once to them that he'll defy all orders to fight for her. It was a miracle they hadn't lost him already at Prestonpans—Jamie wouldn't risk the possibility of him following the others to the battlefield at Culloden Moor where he wouldn't be as lucky. By sending him on an errand to Lallybroch, Jamie was trying to protect him and trying to spare him from witnessing the horror of what would soon come.

"I won't allow it." She shakes her head, her arms crossing defiantly over her chest. "I won't!"

"Claire—"

"No! He's a child! _Anything_ could happen to him!"

Jamie grits his teeth. "Aye, and should he stay, the same is true."

"I could go," Murtagh offers, shifting uncomfortably as he looks between them. "I could—"

" _Fergus_ will go," Jamie says, his eyes narrow and his jaw still tense. "And that's final."

"Final," Claire scoffs. "Hardly."

But Jamie ignores her, turning to Fergus. "Ye'll go now."

Fergus nods as his eyes shift to her, looking uneasy. "Me, Milord?"

"Aye, you're to ride to Lallybroch," he says. "Ye'll leave now."

"This must reach Madame Murray without fail," Murtagh adds, eyeing Fergus. "It is worth more than my life or yours."

Tears well in her eyes as she watches Fergus look between them, his eyes shifting uncomfortably. She can tell he's struggling, not just with whose side to take, but with whether or not he should go at all. If he had it his way, he'd gladly follow Jamie onto the battlefield and die beside him.

And the thought of that was too much to bear.

"I don't want to leave you, Milord," he says, his voice quivering as he fights back tears in an effort to seem brave. "I refuse."

"Ye must," Jamie says, reaching out and taking Fergus by the hand. "Not just for the deed," he tells him, his voice softer than it was. "But no matter what happens here today, it's important someone remembers. Ye understand?"

Claire's stomach lurches as Fergus nods. "I'll go, too," she says. "I'll take him back to Lallybroch."

Jamie looks sharply back at her, his eyes widening. "Claire—"

"I know the way and someone should be with him."

Fergus' brow furrows as though he's about to argue, but before he can insist on going alone or remind her that he's not a child and can take care of himself, Jamie speaks. "No, Claire. I won't allow it."

Her shoulders square. "I wasn't asking your permission."

Jamie's jaw tenses again. "Claire. Ye agreed."

"Jamie, what if he runs into a redcoat or—"

"Claire—"

"No! It's too dangerous. He's a child, Jamie, and though he's trying very hard to hide it, he's scared."

Reaching for her wrist, Jamie yanks her across the room. "Ye ken we had a plan," he hisses, his voice just more than a whisper. "Ye're supposed to go back through the stones—"

"I know what we agreed to, Jamie," she says, yanking her wrist out of his grasp. "But that was before I knew you were going to send Fergus—"

"He has to go," Jamie cuts in, his voice still low but harsh. "He canna stay here. He'll try to fight."

"And what makes you think he won't still try?"

"He gave me his word."

Claire nods. "And suppose he gets it in his head that he can have it both ways?" She takes a breath and glances back to Fergus and Murtagh, watching as for a moment as they both pretend not to be trying to hear. "Jamie, he's defied you before—"

"This is different."

"He doesn't know what's going to happen. He has no reason to think the Scots won't win. He idolizes you, he idolizes all of you. In his mind, there's no way you can lose." She sighs, her eyes pressing closed as she considers it. "Jamie, what if he comes back? What if he tries to go and fight and—" She stops, not wanting to even say the words. "What if he thinks he can do both? He'll fight with you and then you can both take the deed to Lallybroch."

"This is no' negotiable, Claire. Ye canna go with him. Ye promised."

She blinks—she also made a promise to care for Fergus. "I don't see how I _can't_ , Jamie. Don't you see—"

"Always so stubborn," he mutters, his jaw tightening as their eyes meet. "And what about the bairn?"

His words nearly knock the wind out of her. "What?"

Suddenly, his features soften and again, he reaches for her hand. "I'd gladly allow you to accompany Fergus back to Lallybroch if you weren't with child, Sassenach."

She blinks. "You… you can't know that. It's too soon. It's—"

"Ye have not been a day late in your courses in... in all the time since ye first took me to yer bed, but it's been two months now."

She smiles, but it doesn't last.

This should be such a happy moment for them— yet it was bittersweet at best, mired in pending grief and loss.

"You kept track? In the middle of this bloody war, you kept track?"

Jamie looks a bit sheepish as he nods. "Aye," he murmurs. "How long have you known?"

"Not long."

For a moment, it seems that he forgets—excitement gleaming in his eyes as he grins at her—then all too quickly reality sets in and his smile fades. "This child," he begins, clearing his throat as he reaches out, touching his fingers to her abdomen. "This one is all that will be left of me... ever."

Tears spill down her cheeks as her shoulders square. "I won't trade one child for another, Jamie, I won't."

He sighs—in ordinary circumstances he'd yell about how stubborn she was, how she wouldn't listen to reason. But now, all he can muster is that exasperated sigh, and it breaks her heart to see that he's already given up.

"Claire, ye _must_ go—" His voice cracks, then halts.

"I won't let him go alone."

"Then after—"

"Jamie—"

"I beg you, Claire. Ye must."

They've been through this a thousand times, it seemed. And she'd agreed to it. But now that the time had come, all the hushed late night conversations they'd had about it, the plan they'd made seemed… unreasonable.

"You come, too," she says, her voice piquing with desperation. "We can all—"

"We canna," Jamie interjects. "I canna. Ye can. _I_ canna."

"We could sail somewhere... anywhere." His eyes press closed and for a split second she thinks he might be considering it, so she continues. "We could take Fergus and sail to the colonies or—"

"The country is roused. The ports are closed," he says, his eyes opening and his voice full of regret. "I'm no' afraid to die, Sassenach. A musket ball, maybe a blade. It's better than the hangman's noose or the wrath of the MacKenzies. I'm a dead man already, so I choose the battlefield."

Her eyes close, once more forcing tears down her cheeks. "I can't lose both of you."

"I ken this is difficult for ye—"

"It's impossible."

"Ye... ye promised me that if it came to this, ye'd go back through the stones, back home."

She nods. "I know. I… I just…" Taking a breath, she looks back to Fergus. "I need to know that he's safe," she tells him, pressing her eyes closed as she turns back to him. "Jamie, he _can't_ go alone. It's too dangerous."

He offers a slight relenting nod. "Jenny and Ian will take good care of him."

"I know—"

"If ye go with him, ye canna stay, Sassenach. It's too dangerous and I will no' have ye and our child pay for my sins."

She knows better than anyone what happens after Culloden. She knew that the Scots would be slaughtered and afterward, the British would ensure there were no survivors. They'd ravish the highlands, weeding out Jacobite sympathizers. They'd seize their homes and farms, they'd take all they had.

Jenny and Ian and their children could survive it—the deed of sasine would ensure it, _Jamie_ would ensure it. They could pretend to be loyal subjects to the king, they could pretend to have disowned their rebel brother. Life would be different—harder—but they'd weather the storm.

Fergus could likely do the same. He could hide in plain sight.

But she couldn't.

She'd been right there with Red Jamie all along, and everyone knew it. She was as much of a traitor as he—perhaps even more so given her British birth. And she doubted the redcoats would spare the traitors' child.

"They will take good care of him," she hears herself say. "And if I'm truly supposed to go back, then… then I just need to know that he's okay. That's he's… safe and… and that he's loved and…"

"Aye, they _do_ love him," Jamie murmurs as he reaches for her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "Like a nephew."

Claire draws in a breath. "So we're in agreement then?"

Jamie hesitates and her heart beats faster. She doesn't know how else to convince him, how else to make him understand why she _needs_ to do this. Slowly, she starts to pull her hand back, but instead, Jamie tugs her closer. Her eyes open and the back of his hand skims over her cheek—he's trembling, she realizes, grabbing his hand and presses a kiss to it.

"I dinna like it, but I understand it," he tells her. "Take him to Lallybroch, but then promise me, Claire, that ye'll go to Craigh Na Dun and ye'll go through the stones."

Now, it's she who hesitates.

"Claire, please, I—"

"I promise," she says, cutting him off and wondering if she's just lied to him. "I promise."

He smiles before pulling her to him to kiss her forehead. He doesn't say anything and for a moment, they both just linger there, wanting the moment to last—after all, it might be the last time it's just the two of them.

But they can't linger for very long. They're on borrowed time.

Jamie lets go and takes a step back, but doesn't let go of her hand. His eyes shine with tears and his jaw is tight as he fights against himself, struggling to keep his emotions in check—neither of them want this to be the end, and yet they're both so aware that it is.

Bitterly, she swallows back her own tears.

Since her improbable arrival in eighteenth century Inverness, she'd searched for a reason that this had happened to her. It didn't take long for her thinking to shift from how it happened to why, wondering if there was some fateful purpose she served there. Then, she married Jamie, and for a time, she thought perhaps her purpose was a romantic one, that somehow her inexplicable journey was fate correcting itself. How else could it be explained that the man she was destined to love—the man whose soul was connected to hers—was born two-hundred years before her?

Then, there was her crazy idea that somehow she and Jamie could change the course of history, they could stop the Jacobite uprising and themselves along with the whole of Scotland. And that _had_ been a crazy idea. But she was desperate to hang onto the life she and Jamie were building together. For her entire life, she'd waited for a love like the one they shared—a love that made her feel invincible, a love that made her feel like no matter what happened or where they went, she'd always have a home, a love that gave her a family and security, a love that couldn't be taken from her.

But of course, that had been such a silly, romantic dream. For all their attempts, they now knew that Jamie's fate at Culloden Moor could not be changed. Though in spite of that, in spite of ending up at the very place they'd so desperately tried to avoid, she's certain she wouldn't change a thing. She'd hate herself for not trying to save him and if not loving him had never been an option.

"Ye'll leave now," Jamie tells her, his voice hoarse. "There's not a moment to lose."

She nods, but finds it nearly impossible to move. Instead, she clutches his hand until her knuckles turn while, clinging to him as if somehow it might save him—and for a split second, she thinks that it might. "Jamie, please don't—"

"I have to, Claire. Ye ken that."

She nods. She does know—even if Jamie never sets foot on the battlefield, his life will not be spared. He won't be allowed to live, not after all he's done. Tears fall down her cheeks as she takes a step in, still not letting go of his hand, and when she leans up onto the tips of her toes to kiss him, she finds that she can't do it, that she can't accept that this is goodbye.

Then Murtagh clears his throat.

"I, uh… I ken this is difficult," he says, shifting awkwardly on his feet, his hand giving Fergus' shoulder a tight squeeze. "But ye're losin' time if yer to get far enough away from here before the battle's done."

"Should I go, Milord?"

Jamie holds her a little closer, his forehead resting upon hers. "Aye," he says, his voice barely audible. "It's time to go."

"This isn't fair," she tells him. "You're my home."

Jamie nods, forcing a smile. "And you are mine, but this home is lost. And now, you and the bairn… you must go to a safe place." His voice halts in gestation as he takes a half step back. "To a man… a man that could care for you both."

"No," she murmurs, unable to picture returning to the life she once lived, to the man she once loved. "I can't just… forget you. I can't—"

"I'm no' asking that."

"How can I go back?" she asks, her voice full of desperation as her eyes search his for an answer. "How will I explain all this… to Frank?"

Jamie shakes his head. "I'll leave that to you. Tell him what ye will about me… about us. It's likely he'll no' want to hear, but if he does… tell him I'm grateful and tell him I trust him."

She shakes her head. She didn't know what marriage was supposed to be until she married Jamie. She didn't know that she could be herself, that her interests didn't have to be eclipsed by her husband's, that her voice should matter as much as his. Her first marriage hadn't been what she thought it was—but then, how could she have known? She had nothing to compare it to. But now that she did know, how could she go back?

She watches a smirk tugs up at the corner of Jamie's mouth. "And tell him I hate him to the very marrow of his bones."

In spite of it all, a little laugh bubbles out of her. "I… just don't want this to be goodbye."

"Nor do I, Sassenach," he says, his smirk quickly fading. "But it is, for a time."

Tears burn in her eyes, blurring her vision, and angrily, she swipes them away.

"My destiny lies on Culloden Moor," he tells her. "But I'll find you. I promise. If I have to endure two-hundred years of purgatory—two-hundred years without you—then that is my punishment that I have earned for my crimes, for I have lied, killed, stolen, betrayed—"

"Jamie—"

"And broken trust." He takes a breath and again, that smug little smirk of his returns—and it makes her smile through her tears. "But when I stand before God, I'll have one thing to say to weigh against all the rest." Her brow arches as he leans in, just a bit, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Lord… you gave me a rare woman, and God, I loved her well."

Tears spill down her cheeks as she reaches for him, pulling him to her and kissing him with all she has in her. Her hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer and deeper into the kiss, holding him as tight as she possibly can as if trying to imprint herself on him and he onto her.

"I can't say goodbye," she tells him. "I should, but… I just can't."

"Then don't," he replies, reaching out to wipe away her tears, letting his fingers linger on her cheek. "It's not truly the end."

She nods wishing she had the faith that he did.

"Murtagh's right. Ye need to go."

"I know." Her eyes press closed as she draws in a breath and takes a step back. "It's time."

For a moment, Jamie's jaw trembles—and then he puts on a brave face as he turns to Fergus, calling him over and sinking down onto his knees in front of him. "Ye take care of her, ye hear?"

"I will not fail you, Milord."

"I know ye won't," Jamie tells him, taking the boy's hands in his, hesitating for just a moment before tugging him to his chest and wrapping him in a tight embrace.

Claire feels her throat tighten as she brushes away her tears and watches as Jamie presses a kiss to Fergus' hair and whispers something to him that she can't quite here.

Fergus smiles as they break a part, nodding and trying to be brave. She steps up behind him, wrapping her arm around him and pulling him back against her skirt as Jamie stands and he and Murtagh begin to prepare another horse. She grins as Fergus leans back into her, his hand reaching up to hold hers—and for the life of her, she can't figure out how she's supposed to leave him, too.


	2. Chapter 2

She didn't know how to say goodbye—not when goodbye would be permanent.

Usually, she never even got the chance.

She'd been too young to know that the last time she saw her parents would be the _last time_ she saw them. Even the memory is foggy, faded with time. She hadn't thought to pay attention to the dress her mother was wearing or inhale the once-familiar and comforting scent of her father's cologne. She didn't remember where they were going that morning nor does she even remember if she'd said goodbye to them or if she'd even waved. She couldn't remember why she'd been in such a rush to leave them—maybe a new friend's birthday or a schoolyard game she'd been excited for—and she doesn't remember if they'd lingered there, watching as she went, if they in some way sensed what was soon to come.

All she remembers is being told.

The ringing in her ears. The complete and utter disbelief. The anger.

But she remembered none of the things that were important, none of the things that would mean something to her now.

Years later, her Uncle Lamb's death came with equal shock.

For her whole life, he'd seemed invincible, always a part of something that seemed larger than life. He traveled to exotic lands and braved ancient curses. And each time, he returned to her, unmarred.

His life was filled with such adventure, and it seemed stunning that he would die, hunkered down in his basement flat, a heavy bookshelf on top of him. She'd found out about his death a day or so later when a telegram arrived for her. Frank had sent it, fearing that she'd read his name in the papers.

But it didn't matter if she read it printed on his telegram or found it amid a long list of civilian casualties, her reaction was still that of her five-year old self—a ringing in her ears, followed by disbelief that only gave way to an overwhelming anger.

She remembered the last time she saw him in only slightly more detail than she remembered the last time she saw her parents. Less time had passed, of course, so the memory wasn't so faded, but that day had been such a whirlwind. She'd stood in front of him in her army uniform, grinning proudly. He'd beamed at her, his pride evident in his eyes—and also evident was his worry. He'd been quite vocal about not wanting her on the frontlines, not understanding why she felt such a need to 'do her part,' and from the time she'd initially voiced her interest in the Army's nursing program, he'd sent her clippings of local nursing jobs on a weekly basis. She'd promised him that she'd be safe—though there was no way she could actually know she would be—and then promised to write. He sighed and nodded, kissing her cheek and wishing her well, teasing he'd hug her so long that she'd miss her train.

She'd offered a fleeting wave as she and Frank got into the taxi, and she'd only looked back once, watching as he stood there waving back and watching her go as they sped toward the train station.

It was so normal and so like countless other goodbyes between them.

And then, there was Frank.

Poor Frank.

She wondered what he thought happened to her—perhaps that she'd died or been kidnapped, or even that she'd run off with another man.

When she left him, she didn't know that she'd be leaving. It wasn't a conscious choice. But, still, she'd left and then when given the choice to return to him, she'd turned it down, choosing to stay in another time and with another man.

The last time she saw Frank was at the inn in the cozy little room they'd taken for a couple of weeks. They'd been making plans—separate ones—for the afternoon. He was going to pay another visit to Reverend Wakefield to go over some papers he'd found and thought would be of interest to Frank and she was going to return to Craigh Na Dun. With only one car between them, Frank handed her the keys as he leaned in to kiss her cheek, his lips barely grazing her cheek before he turned away from her, setting off toward his destination. She hadn't taken her eyes off of the page she was reading. As Frank grabbed his hat and jacket, he opened the door and momentarily paused, offering a short _I'll see you at dinner_ before leaving. She'd replied only with a nod, her thoughts fixated on collecting a particular herb she'd seen at the site earlier that day. Neither had even said _I love you_ as they parted.

Then, she'd fully expected her trip up to Craigh Na Dun to be short. She'd fully expected to collect what she could of the medicinal flower and head back into town. She thought maybe she'd do a little exploring, grab a quick bite to eat, and then take a long, hot shower. She knew that Frank would be late—he'd lose himself in a conversation with the Reverend and she'd laughed coyly to herself at the thought of him finding ways to make it up to her rather than going out for their planned dinner.

But what she expected to happen wasn't at all what did; it wasn't Frank who was late. She wondered sometimes how long he'd waited at the restaurant where they'd made reservations, wondered how long it took before he accepted that she wasn't coming back, that she'd simply vanished into thin air… that she was gone without so much as a goodbye.

Her life with Frank in the twentieth century seemed like a lifetime ago—it seemed like a life that belonged to someone else—and though she thought about it every now and then, she couldn't wrap her head around the fact that the time had finally come...

"It's getting dark, Milady."

Claire's head turns to look at Fergus. For hours now they'd been riding together, side-by-side in silence, drawing deeper and deeper into the thick forest, further and further away from Jamie and Culloden Moor.

At eleven years old, Fergus understood the gravity of their situation—and though he couldn't possibly know the outcome of the battle that happened that afternoon, just a day's walk from where they stood, he seemed to sense it—to simply know what had happened there, what had happened to Jamie and Murtagh and all the other courageous, strong-willed, and passionate men he'd come to know and admire.

Leaving had been difficult for the both of them, and she didn't think she'd ever forget those final moments with Jamie or how they simultaneously seemed to speed by and go in slow motion. She'd never forget the feel of his hand on her cheek, his fingers pressing into her skin as he pulled her to him, the way his forehead pressed against hers as he told her that he loved her for one last time. And she'd never forget the way it felt when he kissed her—soft and yet so urgent.

Reluctantly, Jamie pulled away from her, drawing in a breath and waiting until her eyes fluttered open before taking a step back and loosening his hold on her. She'd grabbed onto his hand and he'd squeezed his fingers around her palm as if to cling to their final moments together with all that they had.

Still holding onto her hand, Jamie knelt down in front of Fergus whose jaw was trembling despite his best efforts to keep his head up and his shoulders square to mirror Murtagh's stoicism. Her chest clenched as Jamie tousled the boy's hair, leaning in as he whispered something she couldn't quite hear to Fergus. Whatever it was though made Fergus stand up a bit straighter and offer a firm nod— _I will, Milord, I promise I will,_ he'd said in reply as his eyes momentarily shifted to her.

Murtaugh patted Fergus' shoulder then offered her a sweet, yet curt little smile—the kind of smile that only he could muster—and then told Jamie that it was nearly time. He nodded stiffly and looked back to her. In the distance they could hear the drum's playing—the British were nearing and the battle would soon take place. Whether or not it was intentional, he held onto her hand just a little tighter, his eyes locked with her as if to convey all the things he couldn't find the words to say—and she'd nodded, understanding.

And then, he smiled and let go. "Alright, then," he said, looking between her and Fergus. "Ye'll be off."

"Yes, Milord," Fergus said, drawing in a breath before turning to the horse that Murtaugh had prepared for him. Jamie watched him mount the horse, grinning as he sat tall and patted the latch of his satchel where the deed was tucked. "I won't let you down," he told him, his eyes once more shifting to her.

Jamie grinned and nodded—then he too looked to her, his smile warming as tears brimmed in his eyes.

"I dinna want to say goodbye," he admitted.

"Neither do I."

"But I have no choice in it."

She nodded. She knew that. And though it flew in the face of everything she wanted, she knew that this had to be goodbye. She wouldn't ask him to come with her—not again—and she wouldn't make him feel any guiltier than he already did, despite the voice that screamed in her head, begging her to ask him to abandon his men and return to Lallybroch with her and Fergus, daring him to take a risk and just see what happened, praying there was a way for him to stay a part of their lives, to be at her side when she gave birth to their child, to be there to raise a family and grow old with her.

"I love you, Jamie Fraser," she'd said, fighting back her own tears. "I'll never stop."

"And I love you," he told her, his eyes momentarily closing as he drew in a breath, fighting against the same urges that she fought. "And ye'll promise—"

"Jamie—"

"I need to ken."

"I already promised you," she murmurs, guilt already stabbing at her core.

"I know, but I need to hear it again."

"Jamie—"

"Promise me ye'll go back, Claire."

She took a breath. "I promise."

Jamie smiled again. He didn't say anything, but his smile was so soft and genuine—like the thought of her returning to Frank and raising their child with him brought him comfort—and again, her stomach twisted with guilt for the thoughts she struggled with, thoughts that made her dishonest to her word.

"Ye need to go, Claire—"

"I know," she murmured, her eyes pressing closed as she drew in a long, deep breath and slowly released it. And then, as her eyes opened, she pushed herself forward, practically throwing herself into his arms. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her, kissing him hard as fingers tangled in his messy curls. He held her just as tightly and kissed her with just as much fervor—and then, when they finally parted, she let out a muffled little cry as she again whispered one last _I love you_.

"I ken," he'd said, his voice brittle and hoarse, as he released her and once more mustered a smile as tears glistened in his eyes. "And I, you."

Murtagh stood at Jamie's side as she and Fergus rode away. Part of her hesitated to look back—she wanted to remember his smile, even if it was one that he forced only for her benefit. But as they neared the end of the path, she turned her head and looked back at him, watching as he stood in the spot where she'd left him, both watching until they could no longer see…

"Hmm?" she asks, Fergus' voice luring her back into the present moment. "What did you say?"

"It's getting dark, Milady."

Casting her eyes upward, she looks to the darkening sky. "You're right. I… I lost track of time."

"We should camp."

Claire nods, her eyes shifting back to Fergus. "Let's find a clearing and then we'll heat up some dinner."

"Beans, again?" he asks, his nose scrunching and his eyes looking hopeful that she might say no.

She laughs gently. "Beans again."

His lips tighten into a line and he nods as they continue on their way, finding a clearing no more than a quarter mile down the path where they set up camp for the night.

Fergus tends to their horses, securing their ropes and removing their saddles and packs, brushing them down and giving them a few carrots that he'd tucked into his satchel, giggling as their noses tickle his palms.

She can't help but smile as she watches him, his laugh a soothing balm on an otherwise painful day.

She pitches their small tent—a tarp held up by a stake, really—and arranges the heavy blankets underneath, offering some padding and warmth to their quarters for the night. Her eyes cast up to the sky and it's a small relief that she can see the stars—rain would only be cruel.

After setting up their sleeping arrangements, she turns her attention to building the fire. Fergus gathers together stray twigs and sticks while she chops up a thicker branch. She calls him over and shows him how to build a fire—a skill he insists he's already mastered—but when she shows him the trick her uncle taught that will allow the fire to keep burning through the night, his brows arch and his eyes brighten.

"Will you tell me about him, Milady?"

"About my uncle?" she asks, looking up from the pre-prepared jar of beans she pulls from her satchel, grinning as Fergus nods. "What do you want to know?"

He shrugs. "What was he like?"

For a moment, she considers it, paying more attention to scooping the beans into a small pot—there isn't much and she doesn't want to waste even a small bit of them, knowing it'll be their last meal until they reach Lallybroch sometime the following afternoon. "Well, he was a scholar—"

"A man of words who knew about fires," Fergus says, nodding as he crouches down beside the fire, assessing the tall row of stacked logs, clearly still impressed by the fire. "The scholars I knew in France couldn't do this."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "They wouldn't have lasted a day in my life!"

She nods, remembering what Jamie told her of his drafty, scant little room in the attic at that Paris brothel. "You would've liked my Uncle Lamb."

Fergus' eyes widen. "His name was _Lamb_? Like the little fluffy animal? That's worse than Claudel!"

Claire laughs. "His name was Lambert. Well, actually, it was Quinten, but no one ever called him that. It was always Lambert."

"That's better," Fergus decides. "More manly."

She grins again. "Than Lamb? Yes, I'd agree."

Fergus leans in, peering into the pot of warming beans. "What did he study?"

"History and archeology."

"Archeology?"

Claire nods, grinning. She had a feeling that would catch Fergus' interest. "Do you know what that is?" He shakes his head, ready to listen. "Well, we'd travel all over the world—"

"He took you with him?"

"Everywhere," Claire confirms. "We had all sorts of adventures," she tells him, smiling as she remembers one particularly fun summer in Istanbul that was spent carefully digging through the Lycian Tombs when she was about his age and unearthing ancient coins bearing the faces of the gods. "We traveled the world, studying and hunting for lost artifacts—"

"Where was your favorite place?"

Claire considers it, grinning at Fergus' excitement. She knows her answer—Iran's beauty was unparalleled in so many ways, but he wouldn't know it by that name. "Persia," she tells him.

His voice drops to a whisper, his eyes widening in amazement. "Persia—"

She nods as she scoops the beans into two tin bowls, remembering the time she and her uncle spent there. She'd been nearly seventeen then, and while she spent most of her days at her uncle's side, assisting him as needed as she always had, he allowed her a bit of freedom to explore. She vividly remembers an afternoon spent in Tehran, sipping coffee at a cafe. It was such a contrast to the dust of the sandy excavation sites she was so used to.

She'd had her first real kiss in Iran— given by a brown-eyed boy with long lashes and a crooked smile—and it was there where she first discovered her interest in medicine after watching an order of nuns flit around the city, tending to the sick and poor, bringing them soup and nursing their malnourished bodies.

In so many ways, her time in Iran was a coming of age experience, her first step into adulthood.

But that wasn't what an eleven-year old boy wanted to hear about.

She starts by telling him about the lush gardens of the Eram Palace, the enchanting glittering walls of the Shah Cheragh, and the ancient citadels that rose from the sand. She watches as Fergus' eyes widen, entranced by her descriptions of some of the most beautiful places she's ever seen, picturing them for himself and easily getting lost in his imagination. And then, once he's immersed in the seemingly magical world she describes—a backdrop for the stories she's about to tell—she leads Fergus away from the beautiful landmarks of present-day Iran and toward the epic and ancient folklore of the region.

She tells him the stories of Esfandiyar and Rostam—heroes who shared stories with the Greek Hercules, a much more familiar figure and one who offers a shred of realism to her tales. They're the stories her uncle told her when she was young, stories about slaying dragons and battling man-eating lions, surviving storms and braving the desert, raiding fortresses and defending Persia from northern invaders.

He hangs on every word and her stories last them well past dinner—a welcome distraction from the present for them both.

When Fergus' eyes look heavy, she takes his long empty bowl and sets it aside, taking him by the hand and tugging him up.

"We've a long journey ahead of us tomorrow," she tells him. "We should get some sleep."

Fergus nods and lets her lead him over to the little tent opposite the fire. He grins up at her as one of the logs rolls into the flame just as she said it would, and when she offers him one of the blankets, he quickly wraps it around his shoulders and curls up beneath the tent. She settles behind him, loosely holding him, another blanket covering the both of them.

But as tired as she is, she can't sleep, and every time her eyes close, she sees Jamie, standing beside Murtagh, getting smaller and smaller as her horse led her away.

"Fergus, are you asleep?"

"Mm, no, Milady," he answers groggily. "Not yet."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Mm—"

It's more of a grunt than a reply, but she asks her question anyway. "What did he say to you?"

"Milord?"

"Yes."

"He said…" Fergus draws in a breath. "He told me _thoir an aire dhi, mo mhac_."

Her brow furrows, "And you understood it?"

"Yes, Milady," Fergus murmurs, offering no more explanation.

For a moment, there's silence between them, and for whatever reason, a not-so-distant memory of Fergus sitting by the fire with Murtagh floats into her mind. "You know Gaelic?"

"Bits," Fergus tells her.

"How?"

"Murtaugh."

"Of course."

"He taught me little bits, every night."

She nods, smiling gently at the thought of Jamie's curmudgeon of a god-father, sitting with the boy who seemed to get on every last nerve that he had and teaching him a language that would make him a part of his tribe. Then it fades and her hold on him tightens a little at the realization of how much he's lost today—her stomach churns and her chest aches, leaving her nearly breathless in knowing that he still stands to lose more.

"What does it mean?" Claire hears herself ask, not evening trying to piece together the few syllables she recognized to form meaning. "What Jamie said to you, can you translate it?"

She feels him nod. "He said that I should take care of you." She feels his little body tense against hers and he draws in a shaky voice. "A-and then, he… he called me his son."

Claire presses a kiss to Fergus' hair, her eyes filling with tears—he's always been so good at that, a job he took so seriously. So often in France, Jamie's orders to Fergus to look out for Claire were a facade, an excuse to keep him occupied and out of trouble. But Fergus always took them so seriously, carrying them out with such determination and care. He held doors and offered comforting hugs, he brought her flowers and accompanied her on errands, and she wasn't certain she'd have survived the loss of Faith without him.

And as for the last part that Jamie said, it was no surprise. For a long time now, she's considered Fergus their child—their child as much as the one she was now carrying—and though Jamie might not have ever articulated it the way he had that morning, she's long known that was how he felt about the boy. A child of his heart, he'd once explained to Jenny and Ian upon their arrival back at Lallybroch.

She doesn't say anymore, allowing Fergus to drift off to sleep—something she finds impossible for herself. So instead, she lays behind him, gently stroking her fingers through his hair in a way she knows he finds soothing, wondering how she can possibly leave him and cursing Jamie for putting her in a position where she's forced to choose between her love for Fergus—a boy who now only has her—and keeping her final promise to him.


	3. Chapter 3

Claire awoke before the sun was up—in truth, she's not sure that she actually slept.

Her thoughts flitted between unimaginable scenarios—all of which were very real, all of which she'd have to face sooner rather than later.

Jamie was gone.

History told her that.

It was recorded in textbooks that school children read; students and professors wrote dissertations on it. There were memorials all over Scotland, stones with the clans' names carved into them, and the memory of them had been turned into folktales passed down from one generation to the next.

Jamie died on the blood sodden earth at Culloden Moor, dying for a cause deeply woven into the very fiber of his being. There was a part of her that begrudged him for it, a part of her that wished that just this once, he wouldn't have taken the noble route, that just this one time, he'd have been selfish. But another part of her realized that he wouldn't be Jamie— _he_ r Jamie, the man she'd fallen so hopelessly in love with—if he'd left his men to die so that he might live the life they'd dreamed of together.

Yet despite knowing it, she didn't feel it.

And a part of her just couldn't believe it—a part of her wouldn't.

Claire looked down at Fergus, sleeping soundly in front of her.

She envied him for that—for his ability to fall asleep easily in spite of whatever horror was going on around him. And in a way, she was glad for it, glad that his thoughts didn't endlessly swirl, that they didn't creep up on him and catch him vulnerable and off guard, that they didn't didn't steal what little solace he had left.

She smiles, gently reaching up and stroking her fingers through his hair, tangling them in his curly locks.

As hard as it was to imagine her life without Jamie—accept it, really—it was equally difficult to imagine her life without Fergus.

He'd been with them just over a year—a part of their lives and a part of their family, and he'd fit in so seamlessly. He'd come to them under precarious circumstances—a pick-pocket and a spy for Jamie—but soon, he became so much more than a boy Jamie hired. He was precious and loyal, sweet and funny, and he had a way of lightening the heaviest of burdens. He was so like Jamie in his manner—something he strove for and took pride in—and he filled a void in their lives neither had realized was there.

When they'd decided to return to Scotland after the loss of Faith, it'd never been a question for either her or Jamie whether or not Fergus would come with them. He hadn't been as certain though, and when they first shared their plans with him, he'd done his best to keep his jaw from trembling and his tears at bay. His big brown eyes cast downward when Jamie gave him a curious look and asked why he looked so glum and he'd nearly broken down as he confessed that he'd miss them. She reached out and lifted Fergus' chin as a grin pulled at the corners of Jamie's mouth as he explained that Fergus would be going with them, that he'd be going home to Lallybroch—and before the words even fully sunk in, Fergus flung himself into Jamie's arms, promising to be good and to make him proud, promising things he didn't have to promise to either of them.

At Lallybroch, he'd easily found his place, and she knew that when he returned, the transition would be an easy one. He'd resume his chores on the farm and go on little woodland adventures with Robbie—Wee Jamie always on their heels. He'd spend his afternoons stealing cookies from the kitchen and lounging on the hay bales in the stables. He'd have a good life there, even if she wasn't a part of it.

Her eyes press closed as she remembers that tortured look on Jamie's face as he begged her to go back to the stones and how desperately he'd wanted to take her there himself. He was so steadfast in his belief that the world that awaited her on the other side was a better one, that it was a world their child deserved to grow up in.

But she wasn't so sure.

With time and space between them, she saw her first marriage in a new light.

She loved Frank—she always would, after all, he was her first love—but it wasn't the sort of love she felt for Jamie. They'd outgrown each other while the world tore itself apart, and their inability to rekindle the romance was beyond either of their control. They'd simply grown a part; it was the natural way of things.

Maybe had the war not erupted when it did, maybe if their attempts to start a family had been successful, maybe if they'd written more…

But there were so many maybes—too many, in fact.

Their lives were already going in different directions, so there was no reason to believe that if she suddenly turned up again, that they'd simply pick up where they left off. They'd both grown some more, they'd both led separate lives. And just as they didn't return from war as the same people they were before it, they weren't the same now as they were when she disappeared. The gap between them would only widen.

She had no reason to believe that Frank would welcome her back into his life and she had no reason to believe that Frank would welcome the child she carried, a reminder of her infidelity, a reminder of what they could never give to each other. And without Frank, she'd be alone in a world she no longer fit into, alone with only herself and her child. It occurred to her that she was being unfair—Frank was a good man with a good heart.

But that made the thought of returning even worse.

She didn't want him to feel obligated to her simply because of vows they took a lifetime before, and even if he did accept her child and love it as his own, she couldn't see them being happy. It might work for a short time, but it wouldn't be lasting and despite the good intentions they'd both go in with, she knew him and herself well enough to know that they'd both feel trapped. After that, only bitterness and resentment could settle between them, eating away at those good intentions and destroying the affection they'd once felt.

And Frank deserved more than that—she and her child deserved more than that.

Drawing in a breath, she looks up to see a soft light peeking through the trees, it's rays brightening the dark woods with renewed hope.

"Fergus," she murmurs softly, gently shaking his shoulder. "Fergus."

"Mm—just a bit longer, Milady."

"We've a long way to go today. We need to get on our way." Slowly, she pulls herself up, groaning at the stiffness in her neck and between her shoulders. "And we should eat before—"

"Is it more beans?" Her eyes roll and she nods. Fergus is well aware that beans are all they have—the last of the good rations that Jamie tucked into her satchel before sending them off. "I could hunt and get us a nice—"

"We don't have time. Not if we want to make it to Lallybroch before dusk." Fergus' nose scrunches and his arms cross, dimming as quickly as he brightened. He doesn't like it, but he doesn't argue. "When we get to Lallybroch I'm sure you can convince Mrs. Crook to make up something tastier."

Fergus grins. The cook at Lallybroch has had a soft spot for him ever since he taught her a few French dishes using potatoes. "Baeckeoffe," he tells her, nodding decisively, an adorably groggily little grin tugging across his lips. "Or, or no! Potage parmentier!"

Smirking, she nods and retrieves the jar of beans from her satchel. "Well, you can pretend these are potage parmentier."

His eyes roll as he crouches down by the fire, watching as she gathers together some of the sticks and branches she saved the night before. "It worked," he says, pointing down. "No logs are left."

"I told you it would."

Nodding, he sits back on his ankles, his face turning serious. "The battle's over by now."

"It is," she says, trying to keep her voice even.

"And… d-do you think…" He struggles with his question, likely not wanting an answer. "Do you think the redcoats won it?"

Focusing on kindling the fire, she nods. "I do."

"And so… and so you think that… that Milord is…" Fergus doesn't finish, not wanting to say it as if not saying it would somehow make it less true. Fergus' eyes press closed as she sparks a flame, and she watches him closely as she opens the jar, dumping it's contents into the pot she'd used the night before, understanding better than most what he's feeling.

"Did I ever tell you about my parents?"

Fergus looks up, shaking his head.

"I barely knew them," she begins, reminding herself to be careful about the details she chooses to share. "They died in an accident," she explains. "I was only five."

"Just a bairn."

"Yes," she murmurs. "And at first... I just… I couldn't believe it. I _wouldn't_ believe it."

"I never knew my mother or father," Fergus says. "I don't think my father ever knew of me, and my mother… well…" He looks away once more. "She didn't want me."

Claire takes a breath. "Sometimes life presents you impossible situations, and… all you can do is what you think is best in the moment."

Fergus looks up and nods. He's neither convinced or consoled.

"But that doesn't mean you weren't loved then or that you're not loved now." Momentarily, she looks to the beans, watching as they begin to bubble beneath the flame. "Sometimes family isn't about where you're born or who you're born to, it's about… who chooses you and who you choose."

Fergus considers it for a moment. "Like your uncle chose you."

Claire nods. "And the way Jamie chose you… the way I chose you."

That last part stabs at her core. Fergus still has a shred of hope that Jamie survived the battle at Culloden and he has no idea that he could soon lose her, too.

"And because Jamie chose you, you have cousins, an aunt and uncle, all kinds of people who love you."

At that, Fergus smiles, and once more she finds herself thinking of the child she carries—doesn't that child deserve to be surrounded by love and family, too?

Her throat constricts, her chest tightening as she divides the beans between them.

"He wanted to send me to boarding school," she tells him. "He thought it'd be the best fit for us both."

Fergus' brow furrows. "You mean he wanted you to _live_ at _school_?" He shudders dramatically and despite the overwhelming sadness she feels, she laughs. "That's so cruel! To make you go to school is one thing, but to force you to _live_ there—ugh!"

"I threw quite a fit," she admits, a hazy memory of her tantrum bubbling up. "I left him with no choice other than to agree to keep me with him, traveling here and there for his job…" Her voice trails off as she remembers the way her uncle sometimes looked at her whenever anyone pointed out how improper it was for a girl her age to be living as she was, whenever anyone dared to suggest he find better arrangements for her. "But I think deep down, even then, he knew that he needed me as much as I needed him."

Fergus grins, even as she hands him a bowl of tasteless beans—and she wonders if she's trying to convince him that everything will work out as it should or if she's trying to convince herself of it.

Together, they eat in silence and she reminds herself that Lallybroch will offer to Fergus exactly what all of those dusty excavation sites and cramped quarters on boats brought to her—a sense of normalcy and security, a sense of belonging.

After packing up their encampment, they set off on the road again—and again, both are silent.

As they continue, they find the path emerging from the woods. Even after living in Scotland for the better part of two years, she still sometimes finds herself overwhelmed by its beauty, getting lost in the bright green landscapes and rolling hills of the highlands.

A knot forms in her stomach, remembering a little snippet of a longer story that Frank told her as they drove through the countryside, a lifetime before.

She remembers the way he described the immediate years after Culloden, remembering how the British ransacked the farming communities, hunting down Jacobite sympathizers. They stole from the Scots anything that might be useful—they took wagons and farming equipment, confiscated all firearms, even ones just meant for hunting, and they ravished the crops. Then, when they had all they could carry, they set the rest on fire.

And when the Scots cleaned up the mess they left in their wake—putting back together what they could, trying in vain to forge together enough to survive— the redcoats returned and did it all again.

Of course, none of this was done at random—there were certain people who were left alone, others who were tormented more than the rest. The Murrays would likely fall into the later category given their close ties to Red Jamie—after all, Jamie Fraser, Laird of Lallybroch hadn't just fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie, he'd led men in the charge, organizing and training armies to rise against the British. He'd been a trusted advisor to the Prince, a sworn enemy to the Crown. What Jamie did to prevent the uprising would be lost to history. The crops he once raised would be destroyed, his beloved family home ransacked, his family forced to live in fear of what would come next.

Unless, of course, they denied him.

Jenny and Ian could easily separate themselves from Jamie. They could claim they knew nothing of Jamie's rebellious nature, that they were good and loyal subjects of the king. They could denounce him and say they'd had a falling out just before he left to fight, that they refused to take any part in it.

Her heart beats a little faster as she thinks of the deed in Fergus' satchel, the deed passing the title of Laird and the claim on the family property to his young nephew. It was dated a year before—a year before Jamie was considered a traitor, and if Jenny and Ian were careful in what they said, they'd have evidence of their supposed falling out with Jamie. They could say he'd left, abandoning the family and his inheritance for a cause they could not support.

And, of course, she would complicate the lie; her presence would complicate their lives.

Claire had been right there with Jamie, every step of the way, and there were enough high-ranking British officials who knew their story. It was common knowledge that Jamie Fraser had married a sassenach, an English woman whose own loyalties were often questioned. She rode with him as he led his troops, she served the men in his army, and she tended to their wounds after battles. She would stick out like a sore thumb, drawing unwanted attention, bringing to them unnecessary danger.

The knot in her stomach tightens at the thought of her unborn child—the child of a traitor.

Her chest aches as she thinks of her first born—that small little girl with distinct copper hair and her father's chin—and she wonders if her second born would look similar to its sibling. Tears well in her eyes as she considers the cruelty she'd personally experienced at the hands of men who wore the King's uniform, and she wonders what merciless punishment they'd inflict on a tiny baby, what they'd do for payment for its father's alleged sins. Whatever it'd be, she isn't sure she could live with herself—that she could live with the worry or the guilt—because her child would be in danger because of her and her choices, not her father's.

She tries to push away those thoughts, but finds it impossible, finding herself consumed by them—this is why Jamie wanted her to leave, this why he wanted her to go back. It wasn't that her own time was safer or that he felt Frank could offer her something that no one else could—it was just as much about protecting her and their child as it was about protecting everyone else. If anything happened to them, it'd be _her_ fault.

"Milady," Fergus murmurs, breaking through the silence and forcing her back into the present moment. "Can you tell me more about your uncle?"

"My uncle—"

"And his work."

Mustering a grin, Claire nods, more than ready for a distraction herself.

She tells Fergus about the pyramids of Egypt, remnants of a world long past.

She tells him about the Pharaohs' tombs and the ancient curses put upon them, the magical treasures she and her uncle unearthed, the beautiful architecture, and the absolutely gorgeous way the deep blue Nile offset the sand and stone that surrounded it. As a child, it'd taken her breath away, and even now, its memory did the same. She tells him about her own adventures, too—a peck on the cheek by a boy, camel rides across the sand, the incredible, exotic food served at local cafes, and the street bazaars that she would have browsed for hours had her uncle allowed it.

Her stories go on longer than she intended, but Fergus doesn't seem to mind, and truthfully, she's glad for it, too. It makes the journey more tolerable. She feels an ache throb at her core, remembering how she and Jamie once rode along a similar path, him asking her to tell stories of the future world from which she came. She remembers how she told him about cars and aeroplanes and how he'd been completely amazed by them, asking seemingly millions of questions as he tried to grapple with the world she described.

Then, all of the sudden, a wave of nostalgia hits her. At some point the path she and Fergus were on converges with the one she and Jamie rode on a handful of years before. Swallowing hard, she stares at Lallybroch in the distance, remembering how proud Jamie sounded when he pointed it out to her, how desperately he longed for them to have a life there. In truth, she did, too. She wanted all the things he wanted, and maybe she wanted them just a little more. She'd never had a place that felt like home, never had a place where she could put down roots. For an all to brief second, she thinks of that vase she saw in the window of that little shop in Inverness just days before she disappeared through the stones. It was strange the way it resonated with her, the way she kept thinking about it and all it could mean. She'd been thinking of it that day at the stones—thinking of her need for a home, but not quite sure she was meant to have one. And then came Jamie and their dreams together, presenting a life she'd never even knew she could want—a life where that vase might have fit in.

But in spite of those dreams and the way Lallybroch made her feel, it wasn't hers.

She was a sassenach, an outsider who could only dream of belonging.

"There it is, Milady," Fergus says, looking up at her, his brown eyes wide and full of something she can't quite pinpoint. "We'll be there well before dusk!"

"Yes," she murmurs, "we will be." A grin curls onto her lips as she looks from Fergus to the house in the distance. "As long as we get a move on now."

Again, they start to ride and as they approach the arch that serves as the estate's facade, she holds her breath, regret overwhelming her as she offers a silent apology.


	4. Chapter 4

At a young age, she'd learned a lesson that most don't learn until they're well into adulthood, if they learn it at all—that home isn't a place, but a feeling. Home was about people, comfort, and love; and just as easily as it could be taken with you, it could also be left behind.

That feeling could be experienced in different ways—through letters and photographs, through recent and distant memories—and as she stands under the archway, staring toward the old stone house, she's overwhelmed by the understanding that no matter where she was, Lallybroch would always be home.

For a moment, she finds herself rooted in place, thoughts of Jamie and the life they'd tried to build here swirling in her memory. She remembers the first time he brought her here—the way they'd both been so nervous and so excited—and she remembers the day they left, together and resolute, riding side-by-side. Between those memories are a million others—ones of Jamie grinning like a fool as he and Ian returned after a successful hunt, him taking her by the hand and giving it a quick tug as he pulled her close when they left for walk after dinner, the two of them lying lazily in bed, giggling and dreaming together between fleeting kisses and soft touches...

Rubbing her thumb against her ring—the ring Jamie gave her, the ring made from the key to Lallybroch—she smiles faintly, remembering how he described the house—how it'd been built with his father's blood and sweat, how every inch of it had been designed with a purpose. The way he described it had sounded so magical, like it couldn't really exist, that it was a part of some fairytale he'd dreamt up.

But it was real; and though their life together hadn't quite been a fairytale, the short time they spent together at Lallybroch is the happiest she's ever been.

And now she'd returned here without him.

Her chest tightens and tears brim in her eyes as Fergus' hand wraps around hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Milady," he whispers. "It's time to go inside."

Claire nods and musters a grin. He's right—it's time to go in, time to tell Jamie's family of his fate, time to face the reality of a world without Jamie Fraser in it.

Whatever and wherever that might be.

Her feet feel like they have weights on them, those first few steps feeling so impossible.

Fergus leads their horses, letting go of her hand to secure them on the post, and as she stops to watch him, she hears the familiar sound of the latch lifting on the heavy front door, and before she can even look up, Jenny is running toward her.

Jenny's arms wrap around her, pulling her close and holding her tightly as a relieved little _Oh, I was so worried about ye, Claire_ escapes her, the hushed whisper sounding much more like a sigh than the sentiment that it's meant to be. Jenny pulls back and smiles briefly, and then when she sees Claire's trembling jaw, her eyes shift to Fergus and then to the vast emptiness behind him. Slowly, she looks back and all Claire has to do is shake her head for Jenny to know that Jamie wouldn't be coming home. Again Jenny steps forward, pulling her close and holding her tighter, crying with her. It's a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

They pull apart as Ian comes out to join them—Wee Jamie by the hand and Maggie on his hip—and she watches as Ian comes to the same understanding Jenny reached a moment before. The ache in her chest worsens as she watches him process it—something that happens both slowly and suddenly—and when he looks at her, it's not a look of pity, but one of mutual loss.

For a split second, she thinks of a night a year or so before when she and Jamie had first returned home from France. They'd brought back a few expensive bottles of French wine, and one night after the kids were all tucked into their beds and long asleep, they'd all decided to open one… and then another and another after that. As they drank, Jenny, Ian, and Jamie all reminisced, sharing stories of their youth—usually involving something foolish the boys had done or something vindictive Jenny had done to them—and by the end of the night, they were all red-faced from laughter.

"Uh, Milord wanted me to give this to you," Fergus says, stepping around her and looking to Jenny, pulling the deed out of his satchel. "He said I'm to give it to you directly."

Jenny swallows hard as she takes it, looking quickly between Fergus and Claire. "And what's this?"

"A deed," Claire says. "The deed to Lallybroch."

By this time, Mrs. Crook had already come out of the house to collect Wee Jamie and Maggie, taking them back inside to allow Ian to go and join his wife, reaching her just as she unfolded the deed. Claire watches as Ian peers over Jenny's shoulder, watching as Jenny's jaw begins to tremble as she looks back at him, the impact of Jamie's final gift to his family hitting her.

"He's left it all to Wee Jamie."

"Aye," Ian murmurs, disbelief hanging from his words as he takes the deed to look it over himself. "He has."

"It's dated from a year before," Claire tells them, unsure of whether or not they've yet noticed that detail and wanting them to be clear of what the deed means. "So, this property—the house and the farm, the land, all of it—it can't be taken."

Both Jenny and Ian look up at her and for a moment, both seem to be at loss for words.

"They can't take it because the new Laird of Lallybroch is a loyal subject of the king."

Ian huffs. "Unlike the previous—"

"Yes," Claire murmurs, nodding as she loops her arm around Fergus' shoulders and pulls him into her side—it's a comfort to her as much as it is meant to be a comfort to him. "The new Laird isn't a traitor."

"No. He canna even so much as buckle his own shoes let alone lead a rebellion," Jenny scoffs, shaking her head as she looks between Claire and Ian. "Leave it to my brother to find one last way of stickin' it to the redcoats."

Jenny laughs—and though it's a sad laugh, one filled more with ire than mirth, Claire finds herself smiling nonetheless, feeling an odd sort of consolation in it despite the circumstances.

Jenny's laughter fades as quickly as the burst it came out in, and once it does, a heavy silence falls between them once again. This time, it's Ian who breaks it, clearing his throat as he steps around them to untie the horses. She watches as he takes a few steps away, then holds out one of the ropes to Fergus. He smiles warmly, his eyes both soft and glistening with tears.

She knows Ian well enough to know that he enjoys feeling needed, like he has a necessary purpose.

When she and Jamie first set off, leaving the security of Lallybroch in an effort to keep the Scots away from the bloody moor at Culloden, Ian had wanted to come. He'd wanted to fight alongside his friend and brother. Of course he knew that he couldn't—his injury prevented it—and that knowledge came with incredible guilt. Both Jamie and Jenny alike had assured him his guilt was unnecessary, that he served a purpose at Lallybroch.

She'd sat beside Jamie with her stomach in knots, trying to keep her understanding of history at bay as they all talked about the budding rebellion, and all the while she found herself envious of Ian's inability to fight, envious of the security it brought to Jenny and their children.

Now, that regret is nearly palpable.

Claire feels her stomach tighten as Fergus looks up at her as though asking if it's alright for him to go with Ian, and when she nods, he's still reluctant. He doesn't want to leave her side—after all, he promised Jamie that he'd look out for her and if anything, Fergus has proven loyal to a fault.

But Ian's smile is warm and sincere, and as soon as Fergus steps away from her, Ian's arm loops around his shoulders, hugging him into his side before leading him over to the horses. She listens as Ian makes casual conversation—how tired the horses must be, how they'll need a good brushing—and as they lead the horses away from the house, setting out on the little worn path that will take them to the stables, she hears Ian ask Fergus if he's ever used a currycomb; her heart nearly breaks at the way Fergus' shoulders square and his chin tips up as he proudly states _Milord taught me_ just before they disappear around the bend.

Fresh tears brim in her eyes and she reminds herself that Fergus would be loved here—that he _is_ loved here.

And so would her unborn child.

She feels numb as Jenny loops her arm through hers, leading her toward the house—and as soon as she steps over the threshold, another wave of emotion overwhelms her, the numbness giving way to pain.

Jamie is everywhere in this house—coming down the stairs, smiling broadly as he announces some grandiose plan for the day, sitting by the fire with Wee Jamie on his knee as he makes up fantastical tales of knights and dragons in faraway lands, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close as they stand together at the window and watch the sky change from dusk to night—and yet, at the same time, he's nowhere.

"Mrs. Crook," Jenny calls out. "Mistress Fraser has returned to us." Mrs. Crook nods and momentarily, her eyes cast down, the lack of mentioning of Jamie is all she needs to confirm what she suspected. "Please go up and prepare the laird's room for—"

"No," Claire hears herself say, startling even herself. She looks between Jenny and Mrs. Crook, their brows arched as they stare back at her. "No. I… I couldn't take that room. Not now."

Jenny's head tilts. "And why not?"

Momentarily, she thinks to confess everything—confess that Jamie made her promise to leave, that she's still weighing whether or not she should honor her word, that she has another life in another world waiting for her. But then that would lead to questions she wasn't sure she could answer.

"I… shouldn't have that room anymore," she murmurs fully aware of how flimsy her excuse sounds. "I'm no longer Lady Broch Tuarach, am I? I'm no longer the laird's wife, so I shouldn't—"

Jenny scoffs, cutting her off. "Well, if ye think the new laird'll be movin' into that room, ye've lost yer mind. That boy's already gettin' too big for his britches."

"Maybe you and Ian should have it. You did before—"

"Yer speaking nonsense, Claire," Jenny says, waving her hand dismissively. "That'll be yer room for as long as ye live here." Her heart skips a beat as Jenny reaches her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "And that'll be for a good long while."

"And when yer done with that, please let Rabbie know he'll be sharing his room again."

At that, Claire grins. The last time Fergus had stayed at Lallybroch, he and Rabbie were thick as thieves, going on little adventures together and getting themselves into all sorts of trouble—usually when Wee Jamie tattled. But the trouble they got themselves into was never the dangerous kind. Sometimes, on summer nights, they'd sneak out of their room in the middle of the night to stargaze from the rooftop, usually falling asleep under the night sky and giving poor Mrs. Crook a heart attack whenever she'd go and wake them to begin their morning chores and find their beds empty. Other times they'd waste away a whole day fishing in the stream, skipping out on meals and chores, and other times they'd get caught stealing hot cookies straight from the oven, the crumbs on their clothes and redend fingertips proof of their guilt. At Lallybroch, Fergus had been allowed to be a child. For the first time in his life, he was just a boy.

Though it was impossible, she wondered what Fergus' life would be like if he could live in the twentieth century—or rather what his life would be like if she could take him back with her. They could get a little flat somewhere—maybe in Inverness or possibly Oxfordshire—and she could find a job as a nurse. As precocious and curious as he was, he'd enjoy school and he'd be popular with the other boys his age.

Drawing in a breath, she pushes away the fantasy—it was impossible and there was no use getting attached to a dream that could never be.

"Anything else, Mistress?" Mrs. Crook asks, bringing her back into the present.

"Yes," she murmurs, a grin pulling onto her lips as she looks to the housekeeper. "Fergus would like a bath."

"Aye, a bath will be nice after..."

Mrs. Crook's voice trails off and Claire nods, understanding what goes unsaid.

Her eyes shift between Jenny and Mrs. Crook, and it's clear that neither really knows what to say given the circumstances—both seemingly worried about saying the wrong thing or their words unintentionally being hurtful, both still processing it all for themselves.

Here, the loss of Jamie didn't belong to her. It was a loss felt by anyone and everyone who'd loved and cared for him. Though his adult life at Lallybroch had been disjointed, he'd spent the entirety of his youth here. Many remembered the boy he was and many more remembered the man he grew to be. When he left before it hadn't been by his own accord, ripped away from his family home and made an example of the cruelty bestowed upon them all by the redcoats. They pity him for what happened, instead seeing it as a marker of his strength. Years later when he returned to assume his rightful place as laird, they'd welcomed him with open arms, feeling that a wrong had finally been made right.

So it wasn't fair that those who mourned him would walk on eggshells in her presence, watching what they said and holding back memories and sentiments they thought might be hard for her to hear.

And Jamie wasn't the only man lost on that bloody moor not even three days before.

So many men fought alongside Jamie at Culloden. Some he'd known all his life, others were merely acquaintances who'd nonetheless signed up to fight at his side, proudly wearing the Fraser colors. They were all someone's son or husband, their cousin or brother, and for them, the loss of those men stung just as badly as the loss of Jamie did for her.

So it wasn't fair for anyone, her included, to act as those what happened at Culloden happened only to her. It happened to them all and here, she didn't have to bear her grief alone. Here at Lallybroch, she could take solace in the grief of others.

Forcing a grin, she looks between Jenny and Mrs. Crook, feeling her features softening as she remembers the way Fergus used to complain of the way Murtagh smelled and she remembers the horror in his eyes at the realization that as they traveled from campsite to campsite, as they hunted and prepared food, as they cleaned up their messes and sweat in the afternoon sun, his own clothes and body were beginning to smell similarly. "Soap wasn't exactly something we had in excess. It had to be rationed, and despite his desire to be just like the other soldiers, he was never fully onboard with their lack of hygienic practices."

Mrs. Crook beams though her eyes are teary. "Well. Then a warm, soapy bath for the laddie it is."

Claire laughs and Jenny's eyes roll as Mrs. Crook disappears up the staircase to prepare her room and a bath for Fergus.

"Ye'll spoil him with treatment like that," Jenny says.

"After all he's been through, he deserves a little spoiling."

Jenny nods and her eyes cast down, and Claire watches as she takes long, deliberate breaths, her jaw tightening as she struggles against her tears. For a moment, she wonders what Jenny's thinking—if she's remembering something about the brother she loves, if she's mourning a dream she had for him that she knows will now never come to fruition. Regardless, Jenny doesn't say anything, keeping it in as she draws in one more long breath before slowly releasing it and looking back to Claire, putting her emotions back in check.

Briefly, Claire thinks to ask, but Jenny speaks before she has the chance.

"I don't imagine ye brought much back with you," she says, reaching out and rubbing her hand against Claire's arm before letting it slide down to take her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "But once your room's tidied up and the bed's made, if ye'd like to go up and change, ye'll find some of your things still hanging in the wardrobe." A grin twists onto her lips. "Or, if ye'd prefer it, there's a trunk of those fancy dresses ye brought back from France.

"Something clean would be nice."

"And until then, how about a cuppa tea?"

Claire nods as Jenny's arm slips around her, leading her toward the kitchen at the back of the house. For as brusk and brittle as Jenny could be, there was something so soft and maternal about her, and she couldn't help but admire the way Jenny kept the contradicting characteristics balanced, leveraging them exactly as they were needed.

Her chest tightens as they enter the kitchen, a new wave of memories hitting her as her eyes fall upon the basket of potatoes on the counter in need of cleaning. Claire picks one of them up, her fingers rubbing against their coarse skin as Jenny goes to fill the kettle.

It seems like a lifetime ago that she suggested Jenny and Ian plant a potato crop, a lifetime ago that Jenny had simply taken her at her word when she suggested that she should plant them. She didn't question it, she simply agreed—and she did so because Jamie told her that Claire should be trusted even if her advice didn't make sense or seemed contrary to tradition or natural inclination. And as she watches Jenny prepare the tea, she wonders if perhaps Jenny's blind faith in her brother might again help her to accept the impossible.

But advice to plant a foreign crop wasn't at all the same as the notion of time travel.

If she stayed, there'd be no need to ever bring it up; but if she left, it would at least help Jamie's family to make sense of her disappearance, to understand that her leaving didn't mean she wasn't grateful to them or that she didn't love them, that leaving was the only way she could protect them from what would inevitably come if she stayed.

Closing her eyes, she draws in a breath, remembering that night at Castle Leoch when a harper played the song about the woman going through the stones at Craigh Na Dun and how she'd eventually found her way back home. She remembers the hope that filled her heart as Jamie translated the words, summarizing and explaining the folktale—and now, as he watches Jenny preparing the tea, she feels a similar hope bubbling up inside of her. After all, if Jamie grew up hearing stories of fairies falling through the stones at Craigh Na Dun, Jenny would've grown up hearing the same stories. Whether or not she believed them was irrelevant—but something told her that Jenny did believe those stories and that her own story, as far-fetched as it seemed, might fall on receptive ears.

Slowly, her eyes open and she looks back at the potato and she draws in a breath—Jenny had taken Jamie's word on blind faith, hopefully she'd find it in her to do it again. "I, um… I did bring one thing back with me, though."

"Oh?"

"I'm pregnant."

Jenny looks up, nearly dropping the entire tin of tea leaves into the fire. "Oh...oh, Claire—did Jamie know?"

Claire nods. "He did. I'm not very far along but he figured it out, and… and so, yes, he knew." She feels her jaw begin to tremble as a smile tugs up at the corners of Jenny's mouth. "And that's why I can't take their Laird's room. I… I don't know that I can stay here."

"I don't understand ye—"

"I… can't stay here, Jenny. Everyone knows that Red Jamie had an English wife, they know—"

"So what? Everyone around here ken yer not like—"

"You'll be in danger if I stay here. You and your family, Fergus… and the child I'm carrying."

Jenny's brow furrows. "Ye canna know that—"

"I can, though," Claire says, her voice cutting in and raising over Jenny's. "I know exactly what is going to happen." Taking a breath, she watches as Jenny rises to her feet, the kettle over the fire all but forgotten. "I know what happened on Culloden Moor even though Fergus and I left hours before the battle even started. I know that the British won't stop until they're sure they've uprooted every Jacobite sympathizer in Scotland, that they'll patrol the highlands for years and seize clan land little by little until almost all of it is theirs, that they'll destroy the lifestyle you've all lived for centuries now." Her voice cracks as she remembers the casual way Frank had explained it all to her, his void of emotion and any true understanding. "Your son needs you. He needs Ian. Jamie protected the property with that deed, but that'll mean _nothing_ if the redcoats find me here."

Jenny's eyes narrow, and Claire wonders if she's remembering the afternoon in the forest when Claire told her to plant the potatoes, that Jamie once told her to trust Claire even when what she was saying didn't make any sense—and for a moment, she thinks she's going to ask.

But she doesn't.

Instead her shoulders straighten as she draws in a breath. "An' where are ye thinkin' to go then?"

"I'll find somewhere I suppose," Claire murmurs, hating to be so vague, hating that if she goes, she'll simply disappear forever, never to be heard from again. "The colonies maybe, or—"

"This is what ye want, Claire? For you and yer child? To go off somewhere where no one kens or loves ye and do it all on yer own?"

"No," she murmurs in a voice that's barely audible. "I want to stay, Jenny. I want to stay more than I can explain, but it's not safe and… and I promised."

Jenny's brow arches. "Jamie made ye promise to leave?"

Claire nods, and this time, Jenny scoffs and folds her arms over her chest. "Well. Isn't that just like him? Putting people in situations they canna get out of, leaving them to fend for themselves because of his foolish pride."

It's not a fair accusation, but it is one she's considered herself—how unfair it was for Jamie to tell her to leave, how unfair it was to tell her to give up her family and home, to return to a life she no longer fit into and no longer wanted. But then, it wasn't fair for her to stay either.

"So did my brother dinna even tell ye where ye and the bairn should go?"

"That's, um… that's where it gets really complicated," Claire says, her voice hesitant as she draws in a breath watching as Jenny's eyes narrow. Her heart beats faster and faster with each second that passes, thumping so loud that it echoes in her ears as she hopes that just once more, Jenny will accept the impossible on blind faith alone. "You… you may need to sit down for this."


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Claire finishes telling her story to Jenny, the sun is peeking through the widows, casting new light onto them. She'd started at the beginning and chose the details that she shared carefully in an effort not to overwhelm—and as she spoke, she couldn't help but notice how impossible it all seemed, even to her having lived through it.

The whole time, Jenny had simply sat there—staring sometimes blankly, other times with what looked like horror, and often with empathy—letting Claire share whatever she felt was necessary. She didn't interject or ask questions, she'd simply listened as her brother had done years before, and when it was over, she drew in a long breath, looking toward the window and staring off into the distance as if trying to come to terms with it all.

Claire sits across from her—now it's her turn to wait, and for as nervous as she feels, she also feels a sense of relief not to have to bear this burden on her own.

Finally, Jenny looks back at her. "I hear truth in what yer sayin'," she says, her voice slows and her eyes narrow. "My mother used to tell me stories she heard as a girl at Leoch."

Claire smiles, remembering the song the harper had played on one of her first nights there. Swallowing hard, her chest flutters—she's glad that Jenny believes her impossible story, glad to remember the feeling of Jamie sitting beside her as he whispered translations of the song being sung. And then her smile fades as she remembers the hope that filled her heart at the thought of being able to return home, to have the chance to return to Frank and the life they'd lived together.

"Can I ask ye somethin'?"

Claire nods, Jenny's voice bringing her back into the present. "Of course. Anything."

"Do ye love him?"

She blinks. "Him—"

"Yer first husband."

Drawing in a breath, Claire looks to the window, thinking of Frank and wondering what his life was like now, wondering if he'd moved on, wondering if he, too, found another. She hasn't given much thought to her feelings for Frank and how the ways they'd changed, and even now it's hard to think of him as she once did.

Frank was good to her. He was a good man and for a time, he'd been everything she'd wanted in a partner—curious and intelligent, kind, and in love with her. But the love she felt—feels?—for Frank wasn't the same as the love she felt for Jamie. With Jamie she'd felt an acceptance and belonging she'd never felt with Frank. As odd as it was, she simply fit into Jamie's life. He created a spot for her that was all her own, he valued and respected her opinion and he saw worth in her interests. She was more than his wife, she'd been his partner, in all respects. There'd been a time when she might've thought the same about her relationship with Frank, but as she looked back on it, the contract was stark—she simply hadn't known any different.

Had she never had the comparison, she'd have never known what she and Frank lacked. But she _did_ have the comparison and now that she had it; she couldn't ignore it.

And she didn't want to settle.

"I did," she murmurs. "I do…" Looking back to Jenny, she offers a meek little smile, still not sure how to explain her feelings regarding her first husband, not wanting to over or understate them. "Frank… was my first love."

"Aye," Jenny says. "So, my next question for ye is whether or not ye think ye can build a life wi' him again." She pauses, biting down on her lip as her eyes narrow. "Do ye _want_ to go back to 'im?"

"I promised Jamie—"

Jenny's eyes roll. "My brother has a way of pushin' people into impossible situations, but that's no' what I asked."

Claire hesitates—she doesn't know what she wants and Jenny's now asking a question that she's been asking herself for days now, a question she still doesn't have an answer to.

"Let me ask ye this," Jenny says, her eyes narrowing as she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Is there anything else yer retunin' to in yer time, Claire? Anythin' other than yer husband? Anythin' ye canna have here?"

Her gut response is to say yes—yes, of course there's something else, she had a full life in the twentieth century, after all. But as she stares at Jenny trying to formulate her response, she can think of nothing.

Her friends had scattered after the war, returning here or there, and eagerly moving on with their lives. Her employment as a nurse had come to an end with the close of the war, and though it was possible, in theory, for her to find employment in a hospital or even at a doctor's practice somewhere, the priority was to provide jobs for the boys returning home from the front. She was thanked for her service, but it was done with the dismissive notion that she should be more than content to return home and resume her rightful place there.

And family had always been an elusive thing to her. It wasn't that she grew up without love—quite the contrary, actually, her uncle Lamb had done the best that he could. But now, even he was gone.

Prior to Jamie bringing her home to Lallybroch, she didn't know what it was like to live in a noisy house surrounded by family who loved her. She didn't know what she'd been missing or how lonely she'd been. And like the love that Jamie had introduced to her, now that she'd experienced it, she couldn't forget it—she couldn't forget the feeling of belonging that she felt at Lallybroch, the support and comfort that she had with Jamie's family—and it was something she wanted their child to know.

"Frank and I hadn't… really settled," she admits. "We were still trying to find our place." Her admission doesn't sit right with her—it's a half-truth, and as Jenny's eyes narrow, it's clear that that's apparent to her. "And given the time that's passed, I… I don't even know if I can return to the life he and I had together."

Jenny nods and sits back. "So my brother told ye to go back to… to nothin' really." She offers a scoff and folds her arms over her chest. "That _is_ like him—gettin' an idea in his head an' refusin' to give it up."

Claire feels a smile tug up at the corner of her mouth. "A family trait."

Jenny looks up sharply, but then nods in concession, smiling softly. "I just don't understand why he'd want ye and the bairn to go back to… to live a life that's empty."

Her mouth goes dry—she hadn't thought about it like that before, hadn't considered that any life she would live with Frank would now be little more than a lie. "Me staying here would be dangerous, you know," she says. "The redcoats will be—"

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time the redcoats caused us trouble, that's for certain."

"It'd be different than it was before, far more difficult to manage."

"Aye, I expect it will be."

Claire nods, and for a moment she lets her thoughts linger one that, wondering if she could be of help in some way, wondering if by leaving she'd be inadvertently putting them in more danger. Though she didn't know much of what was to come for the Murrays, she wondered if there was some forgotten memory that would later be triggered, something she'd unknowingly stored away for later use… or maybe this was all just wishful thinking on her part.

"Now I dinna ken what'll happen with the redcoats an' I hear what you're sayin' about the dangers of it, but this family's already lost Jamie, I don't see why we have to lose you and the bairn, too?" Jenny draws in a breath, pausing momentarily—and in that all too brief moment, she allows her vulnerability to show. "Ye've got a home here, Claire—you an' the bairn—always. For as long as ye want it."

Claire nods, feeling a hard lump rising in her throat as she considers what it would be like to stay—to stay at Lallybroch and raise her child in a place filled with memories of its father, filled with the sense of love and family that she as a child never truly knew. Tears fill her eyes as she stares at Jenny, wrestling with her own wants and her promise to Jamie.

"We've warded off the redcoats before," Jenny says, sitting back and crossing her arms over her chest with stubborn indignation. "We've told 'em lies and kept 'em chasin' their tails in circles for years now."

"It's different now. It'll be worse now that—"

"But ye know what's comin'? You know what history says'll happen?"

Again, the lump in her throat tightens. "Well, I… I think I do—"

"Ye _think—_ " Jenny's brow arches. "Ye're only basin' this on what we think, not what ye ken?"

Claire sighs. "I… remember bits and pieces from Frank's lectures and—"

"So ye could be wrong."

"I don't know the details. Just that… that what is going to happen to the highlanders is…" Her voice trails off, remembering that day in the car as Frank told her about Culloden. She'd barely been listening, instead more focused on the feeling of the cool breeze as it swept over her face and through her hair and the warm sun as it shone down on her face. But she distinctly remembered the pit that formed in her stomach as Frank spoke of the massacre, and how the highlander lifestyle would be all but vanquished.

And then, she remembered being at Castle Leoch and him explaining that the Mackenzie Clan called it home for at least another sixty years after Culloden—and now, she knew she could attribute that to Colum's staunch refusal to support the Jacobites. In the end, it'd allowed the Mackenzie's to keep their land. He'd preserved it for them in the same way that Jamie had preserved Lallybroch for the Murrays.

_The same way that Jamie had preserved Lallybroch for the Murrays._

Her chest tightens and she looks to Jenny, tears filling her eyes—she hadn't considered that the sasine deed could save her, too—that just as the Mackenzie's has survived the wrath of the redcoats after Culloden, so might the Murrays. Only a few British offices knew her enough to recognize her, how likely was it that those few officers might end up at Lallybroch? Besides that, she didn't _have_ to be Jamie's wife in their eyes, her child didn't _have_ to be Jamie's. It would require her to lie and deny the one she loves most, and worst of all, it would make her go back on her word to Jamie; it would make her disloyal to his memory.

But for the first time since saying goodbye to him, her heart fills with hope, for the first time since that painful goodbye, she finds herself able to envision a life without him.

"You're sure," she murmurs, her voice shaking as she draws in a breath. "Keeping me here—keeping us here—it would be—"

"I dinna ken exactly what ye're about to say, Claire, but I'll stop ye now if ye're goin' to suggest we'd be better off without ye or the bairn." She shakes her head and sits up a little straighter. "I ken my brother and I ken he thinks his own opinions are the gospel truth, but he is no' always right and more time than no' he makes things harder than they ought to be."

Claire smiles and nods—she can't say that Jamie doesn't have a penchant for being a martyr.

"As much as it pains me to say it, my brother's gone now. He's gone and ye're here, and only ye ken what's best for ye and the bairn."

Instinctively, Claire's hand moves to her stomach and she nods. Tears spill down her cheeks and her chest aches—Jenny is right.

Jamie is gone and it's now up to her to make choices that would best meet the needs of her and her child—and no matter how many times she thought it over, no matter how many times she considered how much easier and more comfortable the twentieth century is in comparison to the eighteenth, she can't imagine herself being happy there again. She can't imagine returning to a life she no longer wants, a life that forces her to settle. Her life would be filled with obligations and half-truths—and she can't imagine the example that would set for her child. It goes against everything she is—and it goes against everything that _Jamie was_.

"Ye dinna have to make a decision now," Jenny says. "Why don' ye go up and close yer eyes for a little while. Mrs. Crook'll be in to start breakfast soon. We'll wake ye when it's ready."

Claire nods unable to find her words, not yet ready to voice them.

But nonetheless, her mind is made up. She only hopes she won't live to regret it.

In silence, she and Jenny leave the kitchen and go upstairs—and she smiles faintly as she hears Ian's groggy voice asking Jenny if all is well. Jenny doesn't quite answer—she doesn't yet have an answer to share—but nonetheless, she says she'll tell him all about it in the morning.

And then… silence.

Entering her own room—the Laird's room—she holds her breath as she takes in the low-flickering candles and the blue walls. Jamie is all encompassing here; his memory everywhere.

Claire sits down on the edge of the bed and removes her stockings, remembering the first day she and Jamie sat in this room together and he showed her the dirk his father kept hidden underneath the bed. She undresses and sets her clothes aside—setting them on Jamie's side of the bed—she remembers the way his fingers felt unlacing her corset, how they'd talk about their days and share the most mundane details and lofty dreams while preparing for sleep, and then as she climbs into bed, she remembers Jamie lying beside her, his heavy arm over her middle, his warm breath on her neck. And as she closes her eyes, tears seep from the sides as she sobs herself to sleep, silently repeating again and again how sorry she is for breaking her word to him.


	6. Chapter 6

For the first several days that followed her decision to stay at Lallybroch, Claire was glad to be busy.

Being busy kept her thoughts from wandering too far, kept her from her guilt, and made her feel like she had some sort of purpose where she was—it made her feel like she'd made the right choice.

Together, she, Jenny, and Ian spun a story to explain her presence at Lallybroch in the event that it ever needed to be explained. She was to be a cousin on the Fraser side who'd come to Scotland to visit with her husband and son long before the French showed any interest in the Jacobite cause. On the voyage over, her husband—who they'd decided should be called François to add an element of truth to their tale—became ill on the voyage. Claire assumed it was just seasickness—a detail that added in yet another element of truth—but upon reaching land, he'd never recovered. His illness had lingered, and he grew sicker and sicker rendering a return home to France impossible. He'd died only two months before.

To hide her distinctly English accent, they'd say that she spoke no English, only French and bits of Gaelic, and to add another layer of credibility, they'd enlisted Fergus' help in creating forged letters that detailed a correspondence between Jenny and Claire that dated back to girlhood. When the letters were done—after they smeared and tattered some, stained others with tea and jam—Jenny tied them with one of her old hair ribbons and tucked them away in a drawer, placing them beside her mother's rosary and other mementos of her past.

Then, once Claire's new identity had been decided, they began sorting through the things she knew the British would soon come to seize. Ian fashioned a rough coffin and they filled it with some of their most treasured possessions—Ian's mother's Bible, a book of poems written in Gaelic that Jenny had had since she was a girl, her mother's rosary, and her father's dirk—and they wrapped the items first in the Murray plaid, then in the Fraser plaid and loaded them into the coffin. Claire's hands shook as she added the tartan that Jamie wore at their wedding and watched Ian close the lid. He buried it in a space beside Brian and Ellen Fraser then pounded a little wooden cross into the dirt bearing the name "François Lambert." For a long time, she's stood there, staring at it, feeling numb as she realized it was both a grave for Jamie and Frank, a physical reminder of all she'd given up, all that fate had taken from her, and all that she'd left behind.

It'd been Fergus who'd come to get here that evening, gently reaching for her and giving it a little tug as he grinned up at her and said It's time to go in, Milady...

They spent their evenings sitting around the fire. Ian resumed the Gaelic lessons that Murtaugh had been giving Fergus, and Jenny teased that Claire should pay attention, too, after all, she was a Fraser and Frasers spoke Gaelic.

That little bit of nudging was enough to make her feel like she belonged—like she'd made the right choice I staying despite her promise—but what really cemented her place at Lallybroch, her existence there without Jamie, was the suggestion that they finish the herb garden that Jamie had started to build for her before the uprising. Both Jenny and Ian were excited about it, presenting her with a catalogue from a shop in Edinburgh and promising to make a trip there when things finally settled down so that she could collect some of the things that she hadn't gotten before or things that weren't readily available to her on the Fraser land.

She was overwhelmed by the gesture—it was thoughtful and sweet, kinder than she felt she deserved—but her happiness could only really be bittersweet. Though she was glad to have a place for herself at Lallybroch, glad for her family support, and glad to be able to continue practicing her healing as she had before, she couldn't help but see the garden as a reminder of the dreams she and Jamie had and lost, a reminder that she was forging on with a new life that didn't include him. Nonetheless, she'd offered a teary smile and thanked them, and when Jenny reached out and took her hand, she told her it was what Jamie would've wanted...

"Fergus! Fergus, don't wander too far," Claire calls out. "You're supposed to be helping."

"I am, Milady!"

Her eyes roll. "You haven't found a single mushroom."

Fergus looks back at her, offering a guilty little smirk. "Oh. Right."

Shaking her head, her eyes narrow as Fergus turns his back to her yet again, packing back and forth.

"What are you doing over there, anyways?"

"Keeping watch."

Claire bristles, wishing it wasn't necessary for a boy his age to be so anxious, wishing he didn't carry the burdens that he did, wishing there wasn't merit to his worries.

"I promised Milord I would," he adds, momentarily looking back at her before looking back toward the path.

Her heart breaks at the way he says it, breaking at the reminder of Fergus' stubborn loyalty to Jamie. "We're almost done," she says, mustering a smile he doesn't see. "Then we'll go home."

She crouches down in front of a small patch of them, using a small shovel to dig them up from the earth. She works as quickly as she can, reminding herself that it's still early and the dragoons likely aren't yet making rounds.

"Will we eat them tonight, Milady?"

"Some."

Fergus looks back at her—he's likely bored from staring out at the emptiness. "What will you do with the others?"

"I'm going to make Mister Murray a salve for his leg."

Fergus nods as he joins her at the patch of mushrooms. "What will it do for him?"

"Mushrooms are anti-inflammatory," she explains. "It'll keep the skin from getting red and irritated from rubbing against his peg."

Looking up at him, she grins and flips over one of the morels. "Do you know how I know which mushrooms are safe?"

Fergus shakes his head.

"Do you see the honeycomb-like texture on the bottom?" she asks, pointing to it and rubbing her index finger against the soft, leathery surface of the mushroom. "Well, that's—"

"STOP WHERE YOU ARE!"

Claire feels a jolt at her core, her shoulders stiffening at the sound of the booming English voice.

"Remember the story," she whispers to Fergus as she reaches for his hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "No English. Not a single word of it."

Slowly she rises to her feet, dropping her basket of morels and tightening her grip of Fergus' hand as she turns to face the soldiers. They continue to call out to her, but she doesn't hear them—she can't hear anything other than the ringing in her ears and the loud thumping of her heart. And so when they come closer, repeating their question, annoyed to have to ask it yet again, the puzzled look she gives them is a genuine one.

"Je suis désolé," she begins, her voice shaking as she looks up at the two men in their military uniforms. "Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dîtes. Je ne parles pas anglais."

The soldiers exchange looks—they hadn't expected to encounter a French woman.

"WHERE DO YOU LIVE?" the one farthest from them shouts.

Her brow furrows as she resists the urge to roll her eyes, instead looking helplessly to the other.

"Madame, où habitez-vous?"

Her stomach lurches. "Broch Tuarach," she murmurs, trying to keep her voice low and her accent at bay. "Erm…" Claire looks for Fergus as if searching for the word, but truly, she just needs to see him. She smiles reassuringly at him as their eyes meet, and then as she draws in a breath, she looks back to the soldier. "À Lallybroch."

"Very good then," he murmurs, offering a smug little smile as he looks to her then Fergus. "Dois-je vous accompagner à la maison?"

"Oh non—"

"We insist! Lallybroch is where we, too, were going."

Swallowing hard she makes a conscious effort not to react, instead shaking her head as if she doesn't understand.

"Ce ne serait pas un problème. c'était en fait notre destination."

Mustering a smile and a nod, she bends to pick up the basket of morels, quickly offering Fergus a reassuring little smile.

As they make their way back toward Lallybroch, her heart races. The soldiers ask her the expected questions—why was she in the woods and what acquaintances she had at Lallybroch, and she found that they were particularly interested to know how a French woman and her son came to live in the Scottish highlands.

Without missing a beat, she spins the tale that she, Jenny, and Ian had come up with, and to her relief the story flows naturally and the soldiers give no indication that they don't believe what she tells them.

It's almost enough to set her at ease.

Almost.

As Lallybroch comes into view, she feels her stomach sink as little beads of sweat collect at her hairline, praying that Wee Jamie isn't the first person to greet them, inadvertently giving them away.

But to her relief, no one is outside when they walk up the approach—and from the window, she sees Ian looking out as if he's been waiting. He's ready and she knows that Jenny will be, too.

A moment later, the front door opens and Jenny steps out, looking curious, but not alarmed.

"Claire," Jenny calls out, looking from her to the soldiers accompanying her as she steps onto the porch. "Tu n'as pas dit que tu amènerais des amis."

Ian steps out of the house to stand beside Jenny. "What can we do for you, gentleman?"

The soldiers explain themselves, stating their names and ranks as they tell Jenny and Ian of the Scottish loss suffered at Culloden. Their tones are smug and it takes everything in her not to sneer, but somehow she maintains composure.

"Your brother is James Fraser, is he not?"

"The Jacobite known as Red Jamie," the other says as if that would somehow be a clarification.

Jenny and Ian exchange glances, then Jenny nods. "Aye. I suppose he is."

"You suppose?"

"I'll call no traitor a brother of mine," Jenny says, folding her arms over her chest. "He made his choice betwixt his fool notions an' his family, and that's the end of it."

"So you haven't seen him recently? Since Culloden, I mean?"

Claire's heart beats a little faster at the subtle implication of the soldier's words—that they hadn't recovered Jamie's body from the moor, that he was missing or possibly, better yet, that he somehow made it through alive—but she's quick to squash down any hope that begins to bubble up. She won't hope for what she knows is impossible.

She doesn't hear Jenny's reply, but whatever she's said, the soldiers see it as an invitation to enter the house.

"Va trouver tes cousins, mon garçon," she whispers to Fergus as they enter the house, and though he's hesitant, he does as she asks.

"But James Fraser is laird of this land, is he not?"

"This land belongs to my son," Ian explains, going to the desk to retrieve the sasine deed, handing it over to the soldier who follows. "James Murray."

"James Fraser signed over his land—"

"Aye, a year before all the trouble started." Jenny scoffs, shaking her head as her jaw tightens—her disgust and hurt so believable, so palpable. "Suppose my brother wanted as little to do wi' us as we did wi' him."

Claire watches the soldier examine the deed, noting the date and signatures before nodding to the other and handing the document back to Ian.

"And what about your sister-in-law, Mrs. Murray? Have you seen her?"

Claire holds her breath, her eyes sliding to Jenny.

But Jenny doesn't meet her gaze.

"Och, that sassenach witch kens she canna darken my doorway," Jenny scoffs again, her tone biting. "I canna say I've seen her since she and my brother left here an' I'm glad of it."

"Is that when they signed over the deed?"

"No," Ian replies, "the deed arrived some weeks later."

"By courier?"

"Aye."

"Did you recognize him?"

Jenny and Ian exchange looks as though questioning one another, then shake their heads. "No," Ian says after a moment. "He was jest a lad an' we dinna recognize him."

"Alright then, if you don't mind, we'll have a look around and be on our way."

Jenny swallows hard, but nods. "I've got a bairn sleepin' upstairs, I hope ye won't disturb her."

"We'll be quick."

Jenny and Ian nod as one soldier goes toward the kitchen and the other toward the stairs.

"Are ye alright?" Jenny asks in a low, barely audible voice as she crosses the room and takes Claire by the hands. "My heart is beatin' so fast."

"Mine, too."

They can hear the soldiers open doors and rummaging through drawers as they go from room to room—and Claire holds her breath when the footsteps stop at what she knows to be her own room. But nearly as quickly as he enters, he's gone, moving onto the next.

Kitty stays asleep the whole time, and just outside the window, she can see Fergus and Rabbie with Maggie and Wee Jamie—and while the older boys are trying to keep a stiff upper lip, she can see in their eyes that they're terrified.

Finally, the soldiers return to the parlor, each carrying an armful of things—among them, a pistol and some folded tartans.

"You won't be needing these anymore," one soldier says as he makes his way toward the door. "We'll be back if we have more questions."

Jenny and Ian nod in acknowledgement and follow the soldiers to the door.

"And should you hear from James Fraser or his wife—"

"Ye'll be the first to hear of it," Jenny assures them.

Standing in the window, Claire watches as they stuff the pistol and tartans into a sack, then mount their horses. She unlatches the window, pushing it open just a crack—she listens as the soldiers whisper amongst themselves, but she can't make any of it out. But then, just before she pulls the window closed, Fergus mutters sales manteaux rouges under his breath—and as soon as the words leave his lips the soldier who hadn't said a word to them in French turns, his eyes narrowing.

Her heart skips a beat, but the soldier makes no effort to stop, and when he crosses under the arch and descends down the path that'll take them away from Lallybroch, Claire exhales, praying that only she heard it.

For the rest of the day, they're all quiet.

They clean up the mess the soldiers made throughout the house—her dresses from her time in France strewn across the floor and the fake letters that Fergus helped them forge sit untied atop Jenny's dresser—and then when the house is returned back to the appearance of normal, they resume their chores and daily activities in an effort to do the same. None of them say what they all know, no one is ready to acknowledge how much harder it was going to get.

In need of a distraction, Claire retreats to the barn to mix together the salve for Ian at her workstation, lingering there longer than necessary and doing whatever she can to distract herself for just a little while longer.

But it seems that no matter what she does, she can't ignore that the soldiers seemed to be looking for Jamie—looking for him as if he might've escaped, as if he were still alive.

She'd be lying if she said that hope hadn't been there all along—lying if she hadn't kept it there, tucked away. And no matter what she tells herself—no matter how many times she tells herself that it's all her head and all wishful thinking—she can't stop the hope from bubbling up within her.

She thinks of Jamie coming into the barn—tip-toeing in a failed attempt to take her by surprise—and wrapping his arms around her. She thinks of him pulling her back against his chest and holding her, asking her a million questions about the salve she's making and listening to each answer as though he'd never heard something so fascinating.

She thinks of him distracting her with little kisses, his lips like a feather on her skin. And she thinks of him absently twirling her apron strings as she works, telling her about his own day's work. She imagines his hand slipping around her, gently rubbing at her not-yet-there bump as teases that "mama is ignoring us" again. She imagines herself swatting at him playfully as he catches her by the wrist, grinning coyly as he pushes her back against the workbench, his fingers pressing at her hip. She pictures herself easing up onto the bench and parting her legs, her own grin turning coy as her brow arches, and she pictures him licking his lips as he sinks down to his knees ready to pleasure her, ready to enjoy her...

As she finishes the salve and cleans up her workspace her heart aches for him, and though she fights against it, she can't help but imagine him taking her by the hand and hugging her into his side as they walk back to the house… and for a moment, she can almost feel him.

Maybe one day, she thinks, fully aware that "one day" will never come.

"Mam! Da! The redcoats! The redcoats are back!"

Wee Jamie's voice brings her back to the present, and suddenly her melancholy daydreaming comes to an end, her heart skipping a beat as her mouth goes dry.

Oh no. Fergus, she thinks, suddenly consumed with worry as she remembers how the soldier looked at him as he left. Her stomach drops as she breaks out into a run, moving as quickly as she can toward the house, keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers as they progress up the path toward Lallybroch.

But by the time she reaches the front of the house, the soldiers are already leaving—and in front of the house, Jenny is sobbing as she hangs over the side of a wooden cart. Ian stands behind her, rubbing her back, his face looking into the cart in horror.

And suddenly, she knows.

Tears spring to her eyes as the last shred of hope slips away and the little jar she'd been carrying falls to the ground. For a moment, she's rooted in place, unable to do anymore than stare as the realization hits her—Jamie is really dead, and now she has no choice but to face it.


	7. Chapter 7

For all she's lost in her life, she's never actually had to face that loss head on.

The last time she saw her parents and her uncle, they were alive and well. Her memories of them weren't marred with a final memory of seeing them still and lifeless or without light in their eyes, and until that very moment, she hadn't known the comfort that brought to her. Even with Frank, who was lost to her in another way, had been smiling the last time she'd seen him, eager for whatever information Reverend Wakefield had dug up, looking forward to their dinner plans and whatever would follow, and when she thought of him now, she thought of him moving on and starting a new life. She thought of him living; she thought of him in the present tense.

When she had Jamie parted ways the week before, she knew that it would be final. She knew what would happen to him only hours later, and she understood that his fate laid on the blood-soaked earth of Culloden Moor. But her last memory of him wasn't of him on that battlefield, his lifeless limbs heavy and the color drained from his skin. Instead, she remembered him standing there stoically with Murtaugh behind him, comforted by the thought that she and their child would be safe, that though his time had run out, he'd been able to do something so that Fergus and his sister's family would be protected in his absence.

In a way, it was so appropriate to remember him that way—for him to be forever framed in her memory as courageous and brave, as a man who stood his ground and kept his word, a man who embodied honor. And like her memories of her parents and of her uncle, and even like her memories of Frank, Jamie was forever frozen in that last moment for her. She remembered him exactly as he wanted her to.

But now, as Claire stands there, rooted in place, watching as the two redcoats draw further and further away from Lallybroch, and helplessly listening as Jenny sobs for her beloved brother, she's faced with the harsh reality that that small comfort is about to be stolen.

And for the first time, she wonders if she wouldn't have been better off having left, better off remembering him as he was...

"Can ye hear me, brother?" Jenny calls out, her shoulders straightening as she pulls herself up from the side of the cart. "Jamie! Can ye hear me!?"

A tingle runs down Claire's spine and her stomach drops, but still she finds herself rooted in place.

"Jamie," Ian says, his eyes darting between Jamie in the cart and her in the distance. "Ye've come home to us."

Her heartbeat slows and suddenly, she feels dizzy. "Jamie," she murmurs, her voice barely audible. "Jamie's…" Her voice trails off and she looks helplessly between Jenny and Ian, watching as Jenny laughs out, smiling as she bats her tears away from her cheeks. "He's…. he's alive?"

Her voice is no more than a whisper and neither Jenny nor Ian hear her, but saying the words sends another tingle running down her spine, this one propelling her forward. It seems like it takes an eternity for her to cross the small distance from where she stood to the cart, and when she reaches it, she feels a rush of emotion.

Tears spring to her eyes as she peers into the cart, staring down at her husband—he's bloodied and bruised, his eyes dark and his features wrought with pain, but as a low groan escapes him, rumbling out like a low growl, she can't deny that he's alive.

Jamie is alive and he's been brought back to her.

His eyes flutter and then narrow as they meet hers, and she can't stop the smile from stretching over her lips as she reaches out to touch him, finding his skin warm and her fingers trembling.

"Claire," he manages, wincing with pain as he forces his out his voice. "Claire, what—"

"Shhh, don't try to talk," she interjects, again, unable to stop her smile. "We need to get you inside so that I can properly—"

"Ye're'… no supposed to be here."

Her brows arch and a little laugh bubbles out of her. "Are you really trying to pick a fight?"

"Ye promised me…"

"Isn't that jest like ye, Jamie Fraser," Jenny scoffs, folding her arms and rolling her eyes, but not trying to hide her own smile. "Stubborn as ever."

Jamie's brow furrow and he groans again. "Ye were supposed to go back—"

"Well, I didn't," Claire says, her shoulders straightening as tears stream down her cheeks. "And if you want to yell at me for, if you want to be angry with me, go ahead. But I won't apologize. Not now. Now that I know that you made it off of that battlefield alive."

Jamie groans. "I dinna… I dinna ask 'em to bring me… back 'ere. I wanted..."

"But they did," Jenny cuts in. "And we best get ye inside."

Despite his grumbling, with the help of Jenny and Ian, she manages to get Jamie inside and into bed. He only protests a little when Claire examines him and despite the daggers his eyes shoot at her, he allows her to tend to and dress his wounds. And to her relief, none of them appear fatal.

She instructs Ian to go to her workstation in the barn and collect some herbs to make him a tea—a mix of wormwood, clove, and black walnut to ward off any infection that might've settled into his wounds. Ian does as she asks and after helping clean up the bloody rags and basin, Jenny leaves them, promising to return soon with the tea.

"I won't apologize," Claire says, grinning indignantly as she sits down on the edge of the bed. "I know you're angry that I didn't keep my word."

"We agreed. It's safer… for you an' for the bairn if—"

"Possibly," she cuts in, resting her hand on his chest, drawing in a breath as she feels his heartbeat. "But I had my reasons, and now I have another." Jamie only groans, but through the anger and the pain, she sees the faintest of smiles pulling at the corner of his mouth as her fingers trace feathery circles over his skin. "This is home, Jamie—mine and yours. We belong here."

His eyes close and he draws in a slow, labored breath.

She has a million questions, but she doesn't ask them. She doesn't ask him what happened after she and Fergus left and she doesn't ask him how he survived or why those soldiers brought him home to Lallybroch.

"You can sleep, if you want to," she tells him. "I'll wake you when—"

"No," he cuts in. "I… I dinna want…" His eyes flutter open and she finds them softer. "I dinna think I'd ever see ye again."

She nods. "I didn't either. And yet, here we are. Together again." A little grin tugs up at the corner of his mouth and her heart beats a little faster when he reaches for her hand. "It turns out your fate didn't lie on Culloden Moor."

"No. I suppose it dinna." His eyes meet hers and she watches as they change, watching as he winces and swallows hard, a different sort of pain settling in. "Suppose I die here, instead."

"I won't let that happen."

"But—"

"I won't," she says, her voice firm as it cuts in over his. "I will not let you die, Jamie Fraser."

He groans, his eyes narrowing the way that they do when he's skeptical.

And for whatever reason, a little laugh bubbles out of her. "I'm Le Dame Blanche—a white lady, _a witch_. I have abilities that defy expectation."

His brow crumples, but still there's pain and sweetness in his eyes as he looks at her. "Ye lied to me once—"

"I wouldn't call it a lie," she says. "It just… didn't feel right. I just couldn't—" Her words catch in her throat as she presses her hand to his chest, laying it flat as she feels his heartbeat. "Maybe this is why. Maybe not going back was the best decision I could've ever made. For all of us."

Jamie lets out a grunt, momentarily closing his eyes—and then a smirk edges onto his lips in concession. "Aye. Maybe so."

And then for a moment, their eyes meet. Neither says anything, but they hold the other's gaze. Tears rush to her eyes and pour down over her cheeks. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many risks. But as she sits there with him, holding onto him and feeling him breathe, she can't fathom a single one of them. They've already defied the odds and rewritten history.

"I've got the tea," Jenny says, poking her head into their room. "An' ye've got a visitor, brother."

Claire rises to accept the tea as Jenny pushes open the door to reveal a wide-eyed Fergus standing on the other side of the threshold. His eyes shift briefly between her and Jenny before stepping tentatively into the room. Claire watches as Jamie turns his hand over, doing his best to hold it out to Fergus—and when he does, Fergus's steps go faster.

"How is he?" Jenny asks, whispering as she looks to Jamie. "He looks like—"

She doesn't finish, her voice halting, not wanting to finish.

"He's… alive. That's what matters."

"Mon fils," Jamie murmurs as Fergus reaches the bed, wrapping his hand around the boy's. "Ye did as ye were told."

"Yes, Milord," Fergus says, tipping up his chin. "I did exactly as you asked. I delivered the deed to Mistress Fraser and kept Milady safe."

Jamie smiles. He looks so proud. "Aye. I owe ye a debt."

Jenny's eyes roll. "Mrs. Crook'll be putin' supper on the table soon enough, so why don't ye go an' wash up."

Fergus looks back at her and nods, grinning broadly as he looks back to Jamie. "Welcome home, Milord."

Jenny's arm folds around Fergus' shoulders. "I'll have a plate in the kitchen for ye, Claire, if ye want it."

"Thank you."

Jenny nods, lingering for just a moment before turning herself and Fergus out of the room, leaving her and Jamie alone again.

"Drink this," she says, returning to his bedside. "All of it."

He grimaces as he tries to sit up, struggling even with her help. He takes a sip then pushes the cup away, looking at her as if he smells something foul.

"It'll help ensure infection doesn't set in, or combat it if it already has."

He scowls, but takes another, longer sip, gulping down the hot liquid.

"Good. I'll make you another in an hour or two."

"I canna wait for it," he grumbles as he lays back.

"But until then," she says, laying back on the bed and cuddling into his side, "you need your rest."

It takes more effort than he should, but he lifts his arm and folds it around her, holding her to his chest—and as she cuddles into him, breathing him in and reminding herself again and again that he's really there with her, that this isn't some figment of her imagination or a dream, she feels him relax.

"Why did ye stay, Sassenach?"

"This is home," she says simply. "I wanted our child to grow up surrounded by you."

"It's dangerous—"

"I know," she murmurs—it was already dangerous before he came back to them and now, it'd be doubly so. "But life is never without risk, no matter the time or the place."

She can feel him hesitate for a moment, so she turns her head to look at him, resting her chin on his chest. "I'm glad ye stayed," he admits, his jaw tensing. "I hate it, but I am glad for it."

"I am, too," she tells him. "Especially now."

Jamie smiles, his eyes closing as he breathes steadily. She settles back against him, pressing a soft kiss to his chest once, and then again. She kisses her way up, peppering hurried kisses until she reaches his lips, and then when she reaches them, his eyes open and he smiles. She kisses him—softly and slowly at first, then as emotion takes over, as it all comes spilling out of her, the kiss deepens and intensifies.

It takes a moment, but he kisses her back, groaning against her mouth. She can tell that everything she's feeling, he's feeling too—from relief and joy to worry and anguish, and every emotion between. Just a week before they thought they were saying goodbye—to each other and to the dreams they shared, to the life they'd lived and the family they'd built—and now, they'd been gifted with a second chance.

"Sassenach," Jamie murmurs, his teeth softly clenching down on her bottom lip as her eyes open. "I never thought…"

His voice trails off and he winces, groaning as his head pushes back into the pillow, leaving his thought unfinished.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No," he breathes out. "Ye could never."

"You're sure?"

"Mm," he hums, his lips just barely touching hers. "Ye make me feel alive."

She bends her head and drops a kiss to his chest, letting her lips linger there as she feels his heart beating—and though she can't be certain, the beat seems stronger than it was before. "Well, that's certainly a good thing."

"Aye, an' it's good to feel alive." A little chuckle escapes him and then, he winces again. "Even if it hurts."

"It won't always hurt," she tells him. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

In spite of himself, he smirks. "Stubborn as ever."

"You're one to talk."

"I am no' complaining," he says, a little chuckle resonating in his voice. "No' one bit. No' this time."

Her brow cocks as a little grin tugs up at the corner of her mouth as their eyes meet for a brief moment. He watches as her hand slips beneath the blanket. Her palm slides down his torso slowly and she grins when he swallows hard, sucking in a shallow breath as her fingers wrap around his cock.

He lets out a sigh as her hand stokes up and down the length of his cock—and she smiles as his body begins to respond to her, his cock stiffening and his skin growing warmer.

"Christ, Sassenach," he mutters, his voice low and breathy.

"Just making sure everything is in proper, working order."

"Ye ken I… I canna return the favor—"

"I'm glad to take a raincheck."

A little laugh escapes her as she presses another kiss to his chest, keeping her eyes on him and watching the way his eyes narrow at her as they always do when she makes a reference to something he doesn't understand.

Claire trails fluttery kisses down his body, avoiding his wounds, but kissing his bruises. She smiles against his skin as he groans with pleasure as she peels back the blanket.

For a moment, she watches her hand as it slips slowly up and down his shaft. She shifts herself off the bed, settling once more at his side, her fingers swirling tenderly around the edge of a purple bruise.

His body is covered with bruises just like it—and the bruises are nothing in comparison to his wounds. But still, they give her pause, reminding her of all he's endured and making her all the more inclined to make him feel something other than pain, even if it can only last for a couple of minutes.

Slowly her eyes cast up to meet his, and she grins and licks her lips. Jamie swallows hard and lets out a grunt that's followed by a knowing little grin. Their eyes remain locked as she takes him into her mouth, her lips sliding down his shaft.

She pulls herself back up, letting her tongue swirl around the tip of his cock, before she sinks back down. She repeats this over and over, settling into a pleasurable rhythm. Her fingers knead gently at his balls—and she can feel his body, pushing closer and closer to the edge.

Jamie's head presses back into the pillow and he bites down on his lip, grinning and enjoying her touch.

She takes her time, not wanting to rush it. She brings him as close as she can for the brink before dialing back, teasing him and drawing out his pleasure. Finally though, he erupts. Her lips slide all the way back down his length as she swallows it, her eyes staying locked with his as she does.

She pulls herself off him and settles once more at his side, pecking at his lips, noting how much more comfortable and sated he seems. "Rest now, soldier," she murmurs. "You've earned it."

He huffs at that, but nonetheless, closes his eyes. "Ye'll stay wi' me—"

"Always," she replies, smiling gently as she nuzzles against him, tucking her head beneath his chin. "I'll be right here."

It's not long before he's asleep, resting comfortably beside her. She watches the subtle way his chest rises and falls with each breath, feels his steady heart beating underneath her palm. He's not out of the woods, and she knows it. But he's stronger than anyone she knows, and already, he's overcome more than most ever could.

The coming days and weeks won't be easy, but she's starting to get used to defying the odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. First, thanks so much for reading!
> 
> I am at a bit of a crossroads here. Originally in my outline (er, third outline as I kept expanding this fic), there's a time jump, basically skipping over and just sumarizing Claire's pregnancy. 
> 
> But, now, I'm not so sure that I want to do that.
> 
> Would you be interested in reading a couple chapters (2 or 3) of Jamie recovering and them experiencing her pregnancy together before jumping to the next big plot point?


	8. Chapter 8

A just more than a week had passed since Jamie returned to them.

He was frailer than he let on.

His breathing was shallow and labored, indicating a possible injury to the lung, his bruises were dark and purple, angrily lining his ribs and chest. She tended to them as best she could, unable to stop herself from thinking of Angus and the internal injuries that went unnoticed until it was too late. But the one that caused her the most worry was that gash just below his shoulder, a wound only inches away from his heart.

Claire made an effort not to let on how worried she was, trying in vain to keep her emotions in check and put on a brave face. On most days, it worked and she was able to maintain perspective—able to remind herself that he's survived when he was meant to die, that he'd overcome the worst of it.

But on other days, that was harder. Her touch was more tender, her smiles sad, and undoubtedly, Jamie knew exactly what she was thinking. He'd coax her down to the bed to sit at his side, and then, it was his turn to put on the brave face as he tried his best to reassure her.

 _After all we've been through, Sassenach, wild horses would no' be able to tear me away from ye,_ he'd say, smiling as his thumb rubbed at the back of her wrist as he made a joke about the "poison" she was feeding to him on a daily basis.

At that, she couldn't help but laugh. _That poison, as you call it, may just save your life, you know,_ she'd always wind up telling him, bristling as their conversation came full circle.

It wasn't fair that he, in his state, had to soothe her, but it worked, and she was grateful—grateful to have a husband who knew her so well, grateful for his faith in her, grateful for their second chance, grateful for her medical knowledge and expertise, and for the fact that she'd married such a stubborn man who'd fight like hell to stay at her side.

And still, even in her moments of strength, even in the moments that she allowed herself to believe that Jamie would survive and grow old with her, there were still a million questions that loomed—the heaviest one being what it meant that Jamie had been brought back to them by the redcoats.

He'd been able to explain part of the reason he'd been spared—able to explain the reason he hadn't been shot for treason when the redcoats discovered that he's survived the battle. She found a smile tugging at her lips as he looked to her, asking if she remembered a particular young British officer who'd been willing to give away his fellow soldiers for the sake of her honor.

Her smile warmed—of course she remembered.

He'd told them all the story of their encounter with John William Grey, the sixteen-year old redcoat, and quite possibly the only among their ranks with any honor. Claire sat at his side as he told the rest of the family the story of how they'd come to know John Grey and the begrudging promise Grey had made upon the realization that Jamie had spared his life.

A life for a life—that had been the deal.

And so when he'd reported his name, the commanding officer had given a moment's pause—the commanding officer had been none other than John Grey's brother. Jamie explained how the soldier had come over to him and explained his brother's request. The officer never imagined that he'd be in the position to honor it, alas, there he was—and Claire couldn't help but flinch as Jamie explained how he'd begged the officer to go back on his word to his brother, how he begged him to let him die, how he'd begged to be shot and put out of his misery.

The officer refused.

He didn't have an order from a superior, he had no right to spare him.

But he did to fulfil a promise made to his brother.

Two junior officers under Harold Grey's command were ordered to take him home. They took him in the earliest hours of the morning—loading his limp and nearly lifeless body into the cart and stealing away no more than an hour before sunrise—and all the while, as they lead him through the countryside toward Lallybroch, he begged them to let him die.

His story took longer than it should have to tell. Jamie's voice faded in and out, and he had to take breaks to regain his breath and let his lungs rest, but when he finished, a heavy silence settled in the room as they all came to understand that they were no more protected than they had been before his return, that, in fact, his return meant the exact opposite of what they'd hoped and now, they were in more danger than they'd ever been. No longer were they the family of the treasonous Red Jamie who'd rallied and led an army against the King, they were harboring him and in doing so, committing a crime punishable by death.

"But who got yet from the moor to that barn?" Jenny asks, looking between them all as she breaks the silence as though unphased by the severity of the moment. "Ye canna so much as stand on yer own, ye canna have walked there."

"I had help," Jamie admits, a soft smile stretching over his lips. "Murtagh helped me."

There's another pause, and she feels hope bubble up in her chest only for it to fizzle out a moment later.

The fact that Jamie had been spared was an incredible miracle. They wouldn't be so lucky twice.

"I dinna ken what happened after that."

"Did they shoot him?" Jenny asks, anxiety and hope simultaneously piquing in her voice. "Did—"

"I dinna ken," Jamie says again, this time wincing as he forces out the words.

Jenny watches as Jamie's eyes pressed closed and he draws in a shaky breath, pushing his head back into the pillow, obviously affected by her brother's state.

"Well, I suppose we can all draw our own conclusions," she murmurs, shifting on her feet. "Dinner is almost ready an—"

"Och," Jamie mutters, his eyes opening and settling on Claire. "More of yer tea."

"Those teas may very well be what's keeping you alive."

He groans, but smiles, offering no more response.

Leaning in, she presses a kiss to his forehead as she tells him she'll be right back, and she and Jenny exit, neither saying anything until they reach the kitchen, where Mrs. Crook is pouring potato leek stew into bowls.

Claire smiles as Fergus lifts Maggie up to smell the stew, and instinctively her hand touches to her stomach as she thinks of the baby she's carrying, momentarily allowing herself to get lost in a daydream, imagining how sweet Fergus will be with him or her, imagining how close he or she will be to Maggie and Kitty.

"Ye'd hardly ken others are starvin' an' cold, lookin' at these ones," Jenny says. Claire nods and grins as she reaches for the jar of herbs she mixed together for Jamie's tea. "An' that's because of ye."

"Well—"

"Wee Jamie thinks yer a fairy."

"I'm not a fairy."

Jenny laughs. "I dinna ken how ye can be anythin' else, but we're glad for ye, whatever ye are."

Claire laughs, too, as Fergus brings her two bowls of the stew, one for her and one for Jamie, and she settles them on the tray she'll take up for the two of them.

For the last several nights, she and Jamie had eaten together in their room while the rest of the family ate in the dining room, and then once everyone had eaten and the meal was cleaned up, the rest of the family joined them in the room. It reminded her of the nights when they'd first returned from France and they'd all sit around the fire, reading and talking, laughing and playing games.

Jamie was teaching Fergus to play chess on the same set his father had taught him while Jenny or Ian helped Wee Jamie with his reading. Maggie enjoyed listening to the songs and poems Wee Jamie was learning, and when the children were bored of that, they'd almost always resort to asking her questions about what life was like in her time, what the world would be like in the far-off twentieth century.

She told them about steamboats and trains, about aeroplanes and places she'd visited around the world, places they could barely even imagine. She told them about telephones and the radio, and they listened in awe whenever she spoke, hanging onto every detail. She told them how she'd traveled through the stones, doing her best to make the experience seem fun and magical rather than how it'd actually been for her. She tells that it felt like she was spinning 'round and 'round, and though she didn't quite understand how it worked, she felt that the magic of the stones had sent her to exactly where she belonged.

Inevitably, though, their questions would cease as their eyes grew heavy.

Jenny and Ian would put the little ones to bed and Fergus kissed her goodnight, leaving her and Jamie alone again.

She laughs as Jamie's nose scrunches as she prepares another tea for him to drink.

"It smells like Murtagh."

"Then it should be a comfort."

He huffs and accepts the tea as she sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching out and pushing a straying curl from his forehead. "Do you really not know what happened to him?"

Jamie shakes his head. "No. I was no' awake. I jest remember Rupert and Murtaugh helpin' me up and carryin' me to the barn, an' when I woke up, he was gone and the redcoats were there."

Claire nods, holding her breath in her chest. "So he could've escaped—"

"I dinna ken. I dinna remember much of that day."

"Of course not," she murmurs. "But you survived."

"Aye, but the redcoats dinna have a reason to spare Murtaugh."

"No, I suppose not."

"An' they've been patrolling."

"They came here a day or two after Culloden," Claire says. "They were looking for you."

Jamie groans. "I could hear them as they were bringing me here. They dinna want to—"

"But a superior officer gave them orders."

"Aye." There's a pause as Jamie downs the tea, grimacing and swallowing hard. She laughs as he smacks his lips. "If I dinna ken better, I'd think ye were poisoning me, Sassenach."

Her eyes roll as she takes the cup from him and sets it on the nightstand.

"They were hoping to run into dragoons, patrolling the highlands. I heard them talkin' about it."

"So they could give you up—"

"And cast blame away from themselves."

"Would that have worked?"

"I dinna ken." And then a sly little smile edges onto his lips as he takes her hand in his. "An' I'm glad I dinna get to find out."

"Me too," she says leaning in to give him a quick peck on the lips. "I forever live in the debt of John William Grey."

"And I, too."

She pulls away and rises from the bed, rounding to her side of it, and as she sits down and lifts her skirt to untie her stockings, she can feel his eyes on her.

"I miss you."

"Miss me? I'm right here."

Jamie huffs, then winces, reminding her of the pain he's in and how good he is at hiding it. "I miss touchin' ye… feeling yer skin against mine, the feel of yer warmth surroundin' me…"

His voice trails off as he watches her push the stocking down, revealing her bare leg—and as he reaches out, pressing his fingers to her skin, then slowly dragging them down, his eyes sparkle as he looks up at her.

"We can't," she says, swallowing hard and forcing out the words. "Not in your condition."

Jamie pouts and she laughs.

"We'll be gentle wi' each other."

She doesn't want to say no—for days, she's been aching for him, yearning to feel him inside of her, to feel the weight of his body over hers as he fucks her, rendering her limp as he explodes.

"Can we?" Her brow cocks—she means that as a rhetorical question. But now, she's wondering, considering it…

"Ye'd have to be on top," he says. "I ken I canna move my hips or hold myself up like I'd need to."

Claire smirks. "I'll crush you."

Her brows jut and a little laugh bubbles out of her. "Yet light as a feather, Sassenach. Ye canna crush anyone." Then, his chest puffs up a little. "Certainly ye will no' crush me."

"And suppose you're wrong?"

"Then I will die a happy, happy man."

Her eyes roll, but she smiles. She _could_ be gentle with him and looking at him, it wasn't likely that she'd forget. Besides that, she'd be able to tell if he was in pain, she'd be able to feel it, and just because they started something, didn't mean they couldn't stop.

Slowly, she gets up from the bed, tossing her stockings to a little chair opposite from the hearth, as she begins to undress, going slowly and giving him a little show. She can see him reacting—he's not good at hiding what he's thinking and feeling—and when she's down to only her shift, she stands there, letting his eyes linger.

"You're sure about this?" she asks as moves back toward the bed and getting in on her side.

"Ye make me feel alive, Claire," he says. "And I need to remember that I am still alive, what it feels like to be alive."

With that, she nods, scooting closer toward him. "If anything doesn't feel right, or hurts or—"

"I will."

With a slight nod, she reaches out and gently helps him out of the shirt, dropping it to the floor before lifting off her shift. She smiles gently as his eyes trail over her naked body—she loves the way she feels when he admires her, the way he looks at her like he's never seen something so beautiful.

It's vain, she knows, but she enjoys it, nonetheless.

Her hand slips under the blanket—he's already stiff. She smirks, her brow arching up. "Seems like you've gotten ahead of me."

His smile turns wry. "Ever since ye gave that sponge bath—"

"That was this morning."

"Aye, an' I've been strugglin' ever since."

"You poor thing," she murmurs, grinning as she leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. She smiles against his mouth—his lips are warm and soft, and she can feel her breath against her, and she thinks of all the little things they took for granted, things she didn't appreciate enough, things she didn't know to cherish.

She inches closer, mindful of her hands as she touches him. Her tongue swipes along his bottom lip before pushing into his mouth, and slipping against his.

Laughing softly into this kiss she shakes her head and pulls back. "You taste like that awful tea."

He laughs, grimacing momentarily before resting and rubbing the back of his fingers over her hand. "Ye dinna believe me."

"I still think you're being overly dramatic about it."

Jamie huffs, but grins. "Ye taste sweet."

"Probably from the wine," she murmurs, leaning in and kissing him again, this time a bit harder. He responds, whispering her name against her lips as he slowly lifts his arm to her lip. He grunts and she pulls back, but he smiles and assures her he's alright—and as she leans back in, she feels his fingers pressing into her ass. His grip is stronger than expected, and it sends a little jolt of electricity straight through her core.

His fingers knead at her ass, sliding lower and lower before finally slipping between her legs, his touch making her wetter and wetter.

She pulls back, breaking the kiss, letting out a low little moan as his fingers continue to rub against her sleek skin.

"How do you feel?"

"Better than I have in days," he tells her.

"Mm, so you want to continue?"

He offers a husky little laugh and a nod, watching as her hand pulls back the blanket, revealing his hard cock.

He shivers as the cool air touches his lower half, and she grins, wrapping her hand around his length. She moves it up and down, pumping his cock through her fist as he groans—and when he does, she notes the difference of pleasure versus pain.

"I want to feel you around me," he tells her.

She draws in a breath and nods, carefully moving herself so that she's kneeling over him. Once more his eyes linger over her, taking her in.

"Christ—"

"You promise that if this isn't comfortable—"

"Aye, I'll tell ye."

Again, she takes a breath, this time reaching down and adjusting his cock below her, slowly sinking down onto it.

She goes slow—painfully slow—but it feels good as she slides him into her, feeling every inch. And judging by the way he bites down on his bottom lip, hissing as she envelops him, she can tell that he's enjoying it, too.

Claire pauses as she takes him fully inside of herself, taking a moment for her body to adjust and giving him a moment to decide if he's comfortable.

He swallows hard as he lifts his hand, grimacing as he reaches for her, pressing his hand against her stomach.

"Jamie, don't push your—"

"I just want to feel ye," he murmurs. "I'm no' I pain. It's just...tight."

She smirks—there's an easy joke there, but she lets it pass. "Your arm feels tight."

"Aye, but no' the burning pain it was."

"That's good," she tells him, encouraged. "That's a good sign."

"Aye—I think it is."

His hand slips down her torso, his fingers sliding between her legs, his thumb and forefinger rubbing at her clit.

She lets out a breathy sigh, and instinctively her hips begin to move.

Slowly and gently, she rocks herself back and forth on him, letting herself slide up and down on his cock. She never fully lifts off of him nor does she plunge back down, but it feels good—it feels good for both of them.

"Jamie," she mutters in a low whisper, "rub harder."

He does and she rocks a little harder too, losing herself in the enjoyment of the pressure on her clit and the fullness of his cock.

Maybe she's more sensitive than she was before or maybe it's simply that she's caught up in a moment she thought she'd never have, but nonetheless, she feels her orgasm building.

Her thighs tense and her jaw tightens as she whimpers his name, and without needing to ask, Jamie rubs harder at her clit, pinching and rolling it between his fingers—the small change, the slight increase of pressure is enough to push her over the edge, and as her first orgasm ripples through her, she fingers herself rocking against him and babbling incoherently.

Jamie's smile is smug as she comes down from her high, and after regaining her composure, she leans back, pressing her palms against the mattress.

She's splayed out for him and she knows that he's enjoying this new view—then as she starts to rock her hips fucking herself with his cock, he mutters her name, his voice dripping with lust.

Claire feels his cock twitch inside of her, his balls tightening beneath her. Her motions slow as she reaches back, her finger kneading at them—and a moment later, he's coming inside of her.

Gently, she rocks her hips back and forth, riding him through his orgasm, and when she lifts herself off of him and lays back at her side, his fingers again find her. His thumb rubs at her clit and two of his fingers slip inside of her, fucking her until she comes again.

For a while, they lay together in silence. She feels his heartbeat return to normal and pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder.

"How do you feel?"

He grins. "Tired."

"Too tired?" she asks, sitting up as her chest tightens a bit. "You're not—"

"I'm _quite_ satisfied."

"Good."

"I'm sorry I could no' properly attend—"

"I am quite satisfied, too," she interjects, her voice rising over his. "So don't you dare try to apologize."

He nods and lays back, smiling as she cuddles into his side.

"I had a dream when I was… laying on that godforsaken battlefield—"

"Oh?"

"Ye came to me," he whispers. "Wearin' all white—"

"La Dame Blanche," she murmurs, grinning as she peers up at him.

"Aye, but… ye were a ghost."

Her brows arch and she presses a kiss to his chest.

"I feared that somethin' happened to ye an' the bairn, that ye had no' made it safely through the stones." She feels him swallow hard. "An' I thought…"

His voice catches.

"I thought maybe we could all be together, if I died—me an' you, the bairn and Faith, an' I thought to myself… maybe death would no' be so bad, maybe it was a blessing."

She nods—that's why she wanted to stay, why she wanted to die with him at Culloden. That fate didn't seem so bad, it'd have hurt less than spending a lifetime apart.

"But this is better," he says. "Being here at Lallybroch wi' my family, an' you an' Fergus, the bairn on the way—all of us together."

"As it should be."

"Aye," he says, breathing out. "As it should be."

There's so much that goes unsaid, so much they choose not to say, so much they don't need to say, and it's not long before they both drift to sleep…

* * *

Claire sits up with a start and Jamie lifts his head, his jaw tight and his eyes wide.

"Did you hear—"

"Aye—"

Then, it happens again—that loud raps of a fist in the door. She can hear Jenny and Ian scrambling, Jenny cursing under her breath.

Claire's hands tremble as she pulls back the blanke, trying to rationalize what's happening, or perhaps to cast doubt on what she knows to be true—maybe it's a neighbor in trouble, she thinks.

And then, the fists rasp again and a voice calls out, "In the name of the King, I demand you open this door, at once!"

Her stomach drops and her heart beats wildly on her chest—there's no denying it now, the redcoats have come to search the house, and they've no time to hide the fugitive they're willfully harboring.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my French.
> 
> Literally. I used Google translate and have to trust it. In the past I've found that Google provides one of two types of translations: spot-on and absolutely accurate, or near jibberish. I am hoping that it is not the later lol

_In the name of the king, I demand you open these doors!_

Claire sits upright in bed both trembling and immobilized.

This isn't happening.

This _can't_ be happening.

Not now, not like this.

She can hear Jenny's voice down the hall—muffled, but full of heightened emotion—and she hears Ian trying to calm her, his voice even as he tells her that he'll take care of it.

Jenny's tongue clicks and Claire can almost see her, standing there in her shift, her arms folded over her chest and a look of skepticism in her eye, staring at her husband as though he were the dumbest man on the planet. The door opens, then closes, and as the soldier yells again, his fists pounding on the door as he once more demands for it to be opened, she hears Jenny hiss, _we're harboring a fugitive._

And that's when Claire's eyes fall to Jamie.

He's looking directly at her, eyes locking with hers and his jaw tense.

"I need to get out of here," he tells her, his voice low and barely audible as he throws the blanket off of himself. "I—" He stops himself before she can reach for him, wincing in pain as he mutters something unintelligible in Gaelic. "I canna—"

"You shouldn't be up," she says, suddenly able to move. "You—"

"And what should I do? Just lay here and let them kill me?"

Claire's eyes fall away from his.

She doesn't have an answer.

"Jamie—"

"Help me."

She nods, reaching for her shift and pulling it on. She has no idea what she's agreeing to—there's nowhere for Jamie to hide. Her eyes fill with tears as she gets up and moves to the other side of the bed, letting him take her hand to steady himself.

Jamie manages to sit up as she hears Ian opening the door and her heart pounds a little harder as she hears the soldier's boots on the wood floors of the front room. Ian's voice remains calm as he inquires about their visit, reminding them that it's the middle of the night and that his children are asleep upstairs.

"The wardrobe—"

Claire follows Jamie's gaze. "You'll never—"

"I _have_ to," he says, his voice tense and low as it cuts in, rising over hers. "If they find me, they will kill me and then they will kill all of you."

For a moment, all she can do is stare—she knows that he's right and there isn't another option in the room. The priesthole in the cellar would be the safest place, but there's no way that she could get him in there, not with the soldiers already in the house. Even if he were well and able, he'd never make it unnoticed.

So the wardrobe is their only possibility.

"Alright, easy now," she murmurs, her fingers tightening around his wrist. "Put your weight on me."

He nods, slowly rising to his feet, his fingers wrapping tightly around her hand. He's wobbly and he winces with every move, and by the time they reach the wardrobe and unlatch it, Claire can hear footsteps coming closer.

Jamie looks sharply toward the door and she holds her breath, turning her body as if she could shield him. Claire reaches behind herself, fishing for Jamie's hand—she's not sure if the touch is meant to comfort him or her—but when his thumb rubs against her wrist, in spite of it all, she smiles, bracing herself.

And then as the door opens and Jenny's head pops in, she exhales a heavy sigh of release.

"I canna believe this," Jenny whispers, slipping into the room, her eyes darting between her brother and sister-in-law. "Where—" She voice halts as her eyes fall to the open wardrobe. "Get in."

"That's the plan," Claire says.

"I dinna ken if it'll work, but—"

"It's the best we can do." Jenny nods, moving to Jamie's other side and taking him by the hand. "Easy," Claire murmurs as she and Jenny help him to step inside.

It's a struggle and it's obvious that Jamie is in pain and trying to hide it from her, but by the time she hears heavy footsteps on the stairs, Jamie is crouched down at the bottom of the wardrobe and she and Jenny are covering him up with some of her most voluminous, flouncy dresses from France.

It's a poor hiding spot, but it's the only one available to them, and she tells herself that it'll be good enough.

It _has_ to be.

Claire swallows hard as Jenny leads her over to the bed and together, they sit down on the edge.

"Ye ken the story, aye?"

Claire nods. "I came up with most of it, remember."

"I ken that," Jenny whispers, "But yer no' in the right frame o' mind an—" Jenny stops abruptly, grabbing hold of Claire's wrist as they both hold their breath, listening.

The soldiers have reached the top of the stairs, their boots stomping on the hardwood floor as Ian begs them to be quiet, reminding him that there are children sleeping in the house. But it's no use. They ignore him, speaking—shouting, really—amongst themselves as though Ian isn't there at all.

Claire's eyes pinch closed. She's never been particularly religious, but in spite of that, she prays—she prays that they don't find Jamie, prays that the children stay asleep and don't spoil their story with the truth about who she is and who's returned to them.

"Start in there," she hears one say, before one set of footsteps goes off in another direction, away from where the rooms where the family sleeps, heading toward the servants quarters where Mrs. Crook sleeps.

But before she can't even consider whether or not that should relieve her, another set of foot steps going in the other direction, coming toward her room.

Her heart skips a beat then flutters wildly.

Once more Ian reminds the soldiers of the children sleeping in the house, but again, the soldiers don't seem to hear him—or perhaps they do, perhaps they just don't care.

Momentarily, her thoughts drift to her nieces and nephews, and to Fergus—at least Fergus is old enough to know what's happening. The others must be terrified by the strange, angry voices and thumping of their boots…

Jenny reaches for Claire's hand and that brings her thoughts back into the present moment. Jenny squeezes her hand tightly as their footstep slow.

"Who sleeps here?" a soldier demands.

"My wife an' I," Ian tells them. "And our youngest. She's only a wee—"

They soldiers push open the door, no longer listening as Ian pleas for them not to go in and wake the sleeping baby.

"Kitty," Jenny murmurs, her voice barely audible as her fingers tighten around Claire's wrist, her whole body stiffening with fear and anger—and then, right on cue, Kitty's little cry begins, slow at first, but louder and louder with every cry until she's screaming, screeching over all other noise.

"Can't you shut her up?"

Jenny's jaw tightens as she stands, letting go of Claire's wrist as she moves to the door. "Stay here," she whispers, taking a deep breath before stepping out in the hall. "What's goin' on here?" she asks, her voice booming over the men's.

Through the crack in the door, Claire can see Jenny, standing toe-to-toe with one of the soldiers, somehow looking as though she's towering over him despite being at least foot shorter.

Ian is holding Kitty as he stands at her side, explaining what's the soldier's will not—and all the while, Kitty screams, making it impossible for Claire to hear what's being said.

And then one of of the soldiers says something and Jenny's eyes go wild as she steps in a little closer, and if she weren't so terrified, she'd laugh as the soldier is met by the wrath of Jenny Fraser Murray.

Her voice is shrill and demanding and then men all stand around her, looking as if they're being scolded by their own mothers—and though Claire misses most of it, she hears her demand that they leave as she reminds him that less than a week before, they search the house and found nothing incriminating.

It's then that Claire notices the looks they exchange—something's changed from then to now. Her stomach sinks. She'd willingly allowed herself to believe what she knew was a lie, willingly telling herself that because the redcoats had been the ones to return Jamie to them it meant that he was out of harm's way, that they'd be content to look the other way and allow the Frasers to live in peace.

It'd been so foolish.

It's either that Jenny doesn't notices their looks or she doesn't care. She continues on her tirade as Kitty continues to cry as Ian tries in vain to comfort her, and the soldier avoid eye contact as she reminds them that she and her husband, and everyone in their household, are good and loyal subjects to the king and that if Jamie Fraser ever dared to darken her doorway again, she'd personally report him. After all, she had sympathy for traitors.

Once more, the soldiers exchange looks—and for second, Claire thinks Jenny has convinced them. Their voices are quieter and they seem uncomfortable—and she wonders if it's almost over, if Jamie will really go unnoticed.

Glancing toward the wardrobe she thinks of him, crouched down at the bottom, hoping that the position he's in hasn't opened up his barely-healing wounds—and she's glad to find her thoughts shift to changing his bandages and washing him up, rather than… well, rather than the unthinkable.

Jenny continues on her tirade, reminding them that scaring small children is far beneath them, that she expects more and better from his majesty's representatives, and invites them back in the morning or any other sensible hour—and though her voice has softened considerably, she's still doing a fine job of dressing them down and diminishing their stature.

And once more, Claire finds herself thinking that they really might've pulled this off, that the redcoats might actually go without having even come close to finding Jamie, tucked away in the wardrobe.

Before she's even finished the thought, she sees a shadow moving toward the bedroom door—and her stomach lurches.

"What's in there? No one's checked there, have they?"

The soldier's question goes unanswered.

He seems to be alone.

She holds her breath as a soldier looks in—and though he speaks directly to her, she doesn't hear a word of it. He stares at her, blinking as if she were dumb, repeating himself again, louder and slower, but still her heart beats too loudly for her to hear his words.

After repeating himself for a second time, he simply stares at hers, waiting.

"Je suits desole?" she hears herself ask.

The soldier sighs, annoyed. "Who are you? Certainly not the lady of the house."

"No," she murmurs, "Um… sa cousine."

His brow cocks. He's taken aback, maybe even amused. "A French woman? In the highlands?"

Claire offers a tight, nervous smile. She can still hear Jenny. She's calmer now, recapping the contrived story about the last time she heard from her brother, long before Culloden. Her voice is haughty and self-righteous, and though she tells a blatant lie, Jenny recites as if it were the divine truth.

It makes her feel sick, but nonetheless, she smiles and launches into the manufactured story about how she came to be at Lallybroch—and much like Jenny, there's nothing to indicate in her voice that she's telling a lie.

The soldier listens and it's clear that he's more than a little bored by her story, his eyes wandering around the room.

Perhaps she imagines it, but they seem to settle on the wardrobe, and her mouth suddenly goes dry as she watches him wander, his finger tracing the edge of the mantle as he passes.

"Je peux vous montrer," she says, her voice nearly pleading as he turns to look back at her from over his shoulder. "Les letters," she clarifies. "Ils expliqiquent tout." Claire looks away, looking into the darkened hall, not wanting the soldier to look for too long into her eyes, not wanting him to see her fear as he moves closer to where Jamie hides. "Mon cousin a—"

Her voice halts.

In the hall, the soldiers are talking to Jenny and Ian, and though she can't hear what they're saying, the color has completely drained from Jenny's face.

Her stomach sinks.

"Pourquoi es tu venu ce soir?"

The soldier hardens as their eyes meet. "We had a report."

She swallows and tries in vain to keep her face blank as she tries to delay and distract him. "Je ne comprends pas."

He nods and clears his throat, and then in terribly poor French he explains that Jamie Fraser was found, half-dead in a barn near Culloden Moor. He slowly makes his way around the bedroom, bending to look beneath the bed and out the window as he explains that somehow Jamie Fraser disappeared. His name was recorded, but he was not executed nor did he remain in the barn. Seemingly, he'd disappeared into thin air.

He presses on the walls and taps his foot along the floorboards, presumably looking for something to come loose, to reveal a secret spot, and all the while continuing to explain they had every reason to believe that Jamie Fraser had returned to Lallybroch.

Claire says nothing—she's rendered paralyzed by her fear, worrying that anything she utters or any move she makes will somehow reveal her fugitive husband's hiding spot.

Once more, her stomach lurches and her whole body flinches as the bedroom door pushes open and the other soldiers, who'd been talking to Jenny and Ian in the hall come in. Jenny and Ian follow, lingering in the doorway as a now-quelled Kitty rests against her mother's chest.

The soldiers talk amongst themselves, noting the rooms they've checked and regrettably noting that, just as Jenny and Ian had insisted, there was nothing to be found. One—the one who seems to be in charge—even mentions that Jenny and Ian seem truthful.

Her eyes meet Jenny's as the soldiers explain that the grounds will be searched—the cellar and the barn, any wagons they have, even the chicken coup—anywhere a man can hide. At that, Jenny scoffs and shakes her head, muttering something about it all being a waste of time, but it's their time to waste, not hers.

"And in here? What about in here?" One of the soldier's hands presses against the wardrobe, his palm flattening against the wood. "You looked here?"

Claire watches, sitting there numbly, as the soldier's hand moves to the wardrobe's latch as the other—again, the one who seems to be in charge—makes a quip about ladies' clothing not being of interest to him.

No.

No. No. No. No.

They can't look inside. He—

Her thoughts are interrupted as a blood curdling scream ripples through the house.

Maggie.

Jenny turns on her heels, roughly transferring Kitty to Ian before taking off running down the long corridor to the nursery. Maggie screams again, and this time, everyone follows.

Claire is the last one out of the room, her heart pounding wildly as she glances back at the wardrobe, its door slightly ajar. She can see the yellow fabric of one of her dresses—but that's all she can see.

A wave of relief washes over her and she hopes it isn't premature.

By the time she reaches the hall, Maggie is standing outside her doorway, sobbing as Jenny kneels before her. Behind her, standing at the threshold of the little girls' room, stands a young soldier looking nearly as bewildered as Maggie.

Jenny scoops her up and holds her, rocking her as she tells her again and again that she's alright as Maggie wails unintelligibly.

Claire's eyes shift to the red-faced soldier behind them. His eyes are full of guilt. "I was just…" He stops wincing as Maggie continues to scream. "No one checked...so I…I thought…"

The soldier who seems to be in-charge steps forward. "And what were you looking for? A bunch of little girls' dresses and bonnets? Maybe a doll?"

It's not unimaginable that someone could hide in the nursery—just as there was in every bedroom, there was a wardrobe that could easily fit a grown man.

Jenny turns, her face full of rage. "I think ye've done enough here and I think we've been more than patient with ye. _That alone_ should prove our loyalty." Looking between them all, she rises, and once more, despite her small stature, she seems to rise above them all. "Now, I will _kindly_ ask that you leave so that I can properly tend to my _terrified children."_

The soldier who'd been in Claire's room nods and the one in charge makes a gesture to the others before turning to the stairs. "We'll just continue to search the grounds—"

"And ye'll get no objection from me," Jenny says plainly. "As long as you stay _out_ of my nursery."

They all nod, filing down the stairs like children who've just been caught red-handed stealing from the cookie jar.

Claire doesn't hear anymore. Her heart beats too loudly, thumping so loudly she's sure that everyone around her can hear it—and though the soldiers are leaving, their backs turned to her, she stays rooted in place until the house goes still and her heartbeat slows.

 _Jamie_.

Rushing forward, she closes the door, then quickly makes her way to the wardrobe, pulling it open and grabbing at the dresses that cover him, glad that the thick drapes are drawn.

"Are you alright?"

Jamie winces—his pain more than evident. Nonetheless, he nods. "Fine, Sassenach," he tells her, doing his best to be stoic. "Jest fine."

She reaches for him, wrapping her arms around him as she tries to help him up, struggling to do so.

Finally, she gets him out and he drapes his arm around her shoulders, leaning on her as he lets her help him back to bed.

"You're bleeding—"

"Och—"

"Jamie—"

"It's fine."

"It's not. I need new bandages and—"

Jamie groans and looks away as she reaches for a rag to tear into strips. "I'm fine."

"No—"

His face darkens and he looks away, turning his head on his pillow. "They should 'ave killed me," he tells her, his voice hoarse from the pain. "It would 'ave been better."

" _No_ ," Claire says, her voice firm and adamant. "It would not have been. Not for me. Not for any of us."

"Ye'd 'ave been safe. You and the bairn. Fergus. Jenny and her family. Ye'd all 'ave been safe had I died."

"I refuse to believe that."

"They'll be back. Ye'll see. They won't—" He stops, wincing. "Sassenach, they—"

"Well, they won't be back tonight."

He looks at her, then sighs, pressing his eyes closed. "Aye. No' tonight."

Jamie sits quietly as she cuts new bandages and pours water from the butcher at their bedside into the basin—it's not warm, but it's not cold either.

She cleans him up and changes his bandages, and is both relieved and unnerved to find only one of the wounds reopened. She takes her time with that one—cleaning it and wrapping it—and all the while, Jamie stays quiet.

"They were so afraid," he murmurs the second Claire's eyes meet his. "Jenny's brains—"

"I think the only reason Wee Jamie didn't make an appearance is because he had Fergus with him."

"Aye, Fergus is good wi' the lad."

Claire offers a warm smile and a nod. "He is."

"We canna keep havin' nights like this one, ye ken? It's no' fair to—"

"It'll die down," she says, looking back to the wound and pressing her fingers to it to ensure the bleeding has stopped. "Eventually—"

"Bairns canna lie the way we can."

Claire looks up. She and Jenny worried about that—Wee Jamie might be able to pull it off, but Maggie could never. "We'll think of something," she tells him. "We have to."

Jamie huffs and nods—his eyes are distant.

"Lay back," she tells him once she's checked his bandages for the third time. "Take it easy and—"

"I canna travel now."

"No," she murmurs slowly as he eases himself back. "No, that would not be advised."

"But soon—"

"Perhaps."

"I dinna ken if I'll be ready before the bairn comes—"

Swallowing hard, she adjusts his pillow. "Ready for what?"

"To leave."

"Jamie—"

"We'll go… somewhere." He sighs. "I dinna ken where, but—" His voice halts as he winces. "You and me, the bairn an' Fergus, we… we canna stay."

She nods. More than anything she wants to stay at Lallybroch and build their life, but she knows that Jamie is right. Staying will put everyone else at risk—and Jamie was right before, the redcoats will not give up. "We could… sail for the colonies."

Jamie stares at her for a moment, then offers a curt nod. "Aye. The colonies. That's… a far ways away, Sassenach."

"I know," she murmurs, deciding not to tell him just how long it'll take, remembering his seasickness and how long the journey felt. "But ships are leaving all of the time."

"Aye. They are."

"Jenny said something about you having an uncle who'd always wanted to go to the colonies."

"Hector."

"Perhaps we could all go."

"It'd be nice to 'ave some family there."

"It would be," she murmurs, a soft smile tugging onto her lips at that thought. "The baby will be here in November—"

"The redcoats are less likely to be patrolling in the winter months," Jamie tells her, a smirk edging across his face. "Too cold fer their delicate English sensibilities."

Claire laughs. "You forget I'm English."

"No," he says as he reaches for her hand, taking it in his as wrapping his fingers around it. "I dinna forget. It's jest…" He takes a slow and labored breath as he tries to pretend he's in less pain than he's in. "Ye are a rare woman, Sassenach."

"Well, I'd say that we share a rare love."

"Aye."

"And I'll be happy to love you here or in the colonies or… on the moon or…" Jamie laughs and winces, and her stomach tightens, hating to see him in such pain. "I've heard that February is a good time to sail."

"That seems so far away."

"It is," she murmurs. "But then again, it's just around the corner."

Jamie nods as his eyes close. Claire lays down beside him, carefully cocooning herself around him as she prays for the second time that night, this time praying that February comes quickly.


End file.
